


Liebestraum

by backtopluto



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Gatsby quotes and elements, Gunshot Wounds, Implied Intimacy, M/M, Mentions of War, Post-Break Up, Smoking, background SBI - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28656870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backtopluto/pseuds/backtopluto
Summary: “Can I see you again?” Dream asks as they turn onto a busier street, the car picking up speed.“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll wander into your party again.”Dream glances at him, the city lights flashing across his face. It’s so different from the marble halls of Oxford, the English snow and the scent of old books. Now they’re throwing themselves into the beating heart of America’s most infamous tourist town.Dream smiles, his voice soft. “You mean it?”“Yeah.” He says slowly. Maybe it’s the whiskey, maybe it’s his poor bleeding heart. Perhaps it’s the glamour of their times, or maybe it’s just Dream’s smile. “I do.”
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 169





	1. Oranges

**Author's Note:**

> If any of the people mentioned in this fic express discomfort with shipping or fanfiction this will be taken down! I mean no disrespect. 
> 
> Title from "Liebestraum" by Franz Liszt, which directly translates to "Love Dream". Also check the tags, there's some dark themes but nothing overly explicit, and some of it is based very loosely on The Great Gatsby, but I won't pretend this is anywhere near as good.

In the year of 1922, Miami Florida was a new and bustling resort-town, cropped up from the recent real-estate buzz and the desperate need of many Americans to leave their old responsibilities behind. It was best characterized for its casinos, beaches, hostels, and unmistakable heat. 

Really, George had no justifiable reason for why he chose to come to Miami. Immigrants did not filter in the way they did in New York. Miami did not boast Wall Street. It was not the home of poets the way Paris was, and it was not the thriving bustle of civilization that London, Milan, and Peking were. 

But Miami boasted a small handful of redeemable qualities; land was cheap, the girls were pretty, the beaches plentiful, and prohibition was more or less a suggestion. 

He had absolutely no excuse for coming to Miami. Perhaps he could blame it on his alcohol problems, or the incessant ache in his chest which told him to get as far as possible from England. Really, he knew the true reason he had come to Miami, and he could not justify it, not even to himself in the watery predawn hours of the morning when the entire world was asleep. 

Still, he had come and now he stood before a house that could not really be called a house at all. He would sooner equate it to an  _ estate,  _ or a  _ castle,  _ or a  _ château,  _ or even a  _ palace, _ before he called it a house. It was built in the Mediterannian style, with an orange tiled roof, and elaborate balustrades, windows, and doors. Bright jazz music sang through the open doors, and crowds filtered in and out, like bees drawn to a hive. He had never felt more out of place as he stood on the front lawn, clutching a dark suitcase. He stood out like a sober amongst drunks as the most eclectic collection of people he had ever witnessed pressed against him- silent film stars, gangsters, college kids, highschool dropouts, politicians, playboys, veterans, queers, publishers, heiresses, billionaires, Broadway actors, columnists, bootleggers, girls who couldn’t afford the glass in their hands, and men who could purchase entire city blocks. The entirety of Miami spilled through the doors, uninvited. Everyone who was anyone was there, and anyone who wanted to be someone stepped through those doors. 

George supposes, in some crude sense, he was one of them. His eyes were wide, staring up at the light of the illustrious decadence, allowing it to fall over him. He spent his time amongst rich people, he knew their kind. His job required him to. 

Yet at the same time, he was here on  _ invite _ , thank you very much. He clutched the piece of paper in his hands, the edges lined with gold. He realized it was likely useless, the bussers at the doors made no move to ask for invitations. Nervously, he takes a swig from his flask. His nerves settle. 

Although perhaps invite was too grand a word. He had been asked to come and play a few pieces for the party, and when Bad had proposed a price, he had been in no place to say no. 

Now he realizes that Bad had horribly misjudged. He was a  _ classical  _ pianist. His suitcase is stuffed with Chopin, Beethoven, Debussy, and Liszt, not Morton or Henderson. He should just turn around, forget about the money and wait for another gig at an overpriced restaurant on Miami Beach. 

“George!” Calls a familiar voice. He cranes his neck and sees Bad stumbling out of the front doors, pushing against the crowd to reach him. “There you are!” 

Bad latches onto his elbow, ignoring the way George flinches back. He drags him a little ways out of the crowds, into the sprawling gardens. All of the flowers are blue, the petals dripping with moisture. 

“I thought you were going to leave.” Bad says, glancing behind them at the crowd. “I know this isn’t your scene.” 

“I think you’re mistaken.” George says honestly, hoping that Bad will give him the out. “They need a  _ jazz  _ pianist. I’m classical.” 

“Oh.” Bad says, staring at George like he genuinely didn’t know there was a difference. “Can you play jazz?” 

“No!” George snaps. “Classical music has rules, order, and sense. Jazz is just,” he gestures with his hands, “nonsense. It takes the rules of music and snaps it in half. I can’t play like that.” 

Bad taps his chin in thought. “There’s a piano on the balcony. Maybe you could play on that one? I’m sure the people outside would prefer the more subdued atmosphere.” 

George sighs, running a hand through his parted hair. “Could I just go home?” 

“Afraid not.” Bad grabs his elbow again, leading him towards the front doors. “The host has been looking for a new pianist ever since the last one bloused.” 

“Bloused?” George repeats, trying to walk as slow as possible. “Why?” 

“Had a little too much giggle water one night. Made a scene.” He explains, their shoes clicking against the pavement. The air reeks of flowers, booze, and the sea. It’s intoxicating. A yellow automobile rounds the corner, coming to a halting stop near the front doors. The crowd scatters, giggling as people pour from the packed car like wine. 

“We won’t have a repeat of that incident, will we George?” Bad asks, dragging him further towards the doors. The music is louder here, the crush of people overwhelming around them. 

“No.” George agrees, clutching his suitcase. 

Bad raises a skeptical eyebrow at him. “I understand you’ve had… incidents. In the past. Regarding alcohol.” 

George sighs. Jesus, he really didn’t think he would have to talk about his alcohol problems at a party, of all places. At a party with a champagne fountain nonetheless. The flask in his pocket is heavy, and he lies through his teeth. “I don’t drink when I’m at a gig.”

“Good.” Bad says, tipping his head at the doormen who nods back, and with one last tug on George’s elbow, they’re inside. 

It takes George’s breath away, the sheer galvanic exorbitantance of it all. The arched entryway is a crush of people, all moving forwards in one direction. Balloons bounce against the ceiling and golden confetti litters the ground, sticky with spilled drink. The crowds remind George of London at rush hour, only this crowd is pulsing and excited, energy humming all around them like a baited breath. Heavy, new-age swing filters down the hallway with the volume of an entire orchestra. Someone jostles George’s shoulder, and someone else runs their hand across his arm, gone before he can see who it was. 

The hallway spills out into the main atrium, the ceiling high above. The entire room had been converted into a dancefloor, the crush of people all gathering in this one room, pressing against each other. Butlers in white suits floated through the crowd with platters stacked high with drinks. Slender hands stacked with jewelry reached out, plucking them away. Showgirls with short hair and loose dresses, and wings made of pink feathers leaned against the banisters. A crystal chandelier threw fractals of light across the walls. The room reeked of sweat and booze, couples danced and tossed back helium balloons and flutes of champagne. There were no inhibitions, no regrets. A showcase of the most interesting people in all of Miami, perhaps all of the United States, thrown against the backdrop of the post-war, new money decadence. 

“Come along.” Bad said, weaving them through the crowd. If it weren’t for his grasp on his elbow, George probably would have grabbed the nearest flute of champagne and forgotten all the lessons he’d already learned about the dangers of parties and alcohol. 

Bad led him up the curling set of stairs, the sort that actresses in films would walk down in a big puffy gown. One of the showgirls along the banister grabbed George’s hand, but Bad gave her a sharp look and she let go. A pink feather from her wings fell off, landing on George’s suit. He doesn't bother to wipe it away. 

Bad guides him through a few more hallways, which were far less crowded and filled mostly with couples too wrapped up in eachother to notice them. Bad’s grip on George was like a clamp, as if he knew that nearly every single one of George’s vices were whispering in his ear as they passed through the crowds. 

They ended up in front of a set of glass doors. Bad tosses them open, stepping out onto a balcony that overlooked the sprawling gardens. Beyond that, just a short walk away, lay the great expanse of the Atlantic ocean. Palm trees as tall as buildings swayed in the wind, one so close that George could have reached out and ran his hand along it’s massive leaves. A grand piano sat in the middle of the balcony, it’s top open to expose the gut of the instrument. 

Outside lay the quieter crowds. They gathered mostly at tables and under lamplights in the silvery moonlight. Men picked blue flowers from the bushes, tucking them behind girls’ ears. The loud music was barely a memory out here. George supposed it was his job to fill the silence. 

He swallows, turning to Bad as his hand lingers atop the key cover. “Are you certain they like Chopin?” 

“The host loves Chopin.” Bad says, as if that answers his question. 

George sighs, running a hand through his hair again. He itches to reach for his flask, but knows better than to do so in front of Bad. Instead he asks the question that’s been on his mind all night, “Who is the host? No one knows his name, or what he looks like. How could you not know the host of a party,” he gestures behind them, “like this?” 

“The host likes to remain relatively anonymous. If he wishes to speak with you, he will.” Bad explains, opening a pocket watch. His eyes widen when he looks at the time, flicking it closed. “Alright, I have to breeze. You can take a break whenever you need, but don’t be gone too long. I’ll let you know when you can go, and I’ll pay you then.” He nods at George’s suitcase. “Do you have enough music in there to last a night?” 

George nods and takes his seat at the piano bench, adjusting it until it’s at the right height. He uncovers the keys, 88 black and white ivory keys blink back at him. His fingers flit over them, almost afraid to touch it. He plays a simple scale, the notes ringing and clear, perfectly in tune. He sighs. 

A few of the people below are gazing up at him, eyes wide and blinking. George is grateful for all the years he had spent overcoming his horrid stagefright. Even just a couple of years ago, the handful of eyes on him would have caused him to crumple like a tin can. He briefly reminds himself that he is good at what he does- and at the end of the night he’d get a nice paycheck that would pay his rent for months. 

He still takes a long chug from his flask. 

He begins with something light as the summer wind, something to ease people into it. Background music, as one restaurant owner had once told him harshly. George was not the center of attention here. He was here for atmosphere and background and nothing more. 

The notes fall from his fingers like rain, washing over the crowd. A few stop and stare, but return quietly to their conversations, their voices perhaps a little softer than before as Chopin floats between the lanterns and the dark glasses of wine. It’s a stark black and white contrast to the blaring jazz inside, and it draws out some of the quieter crowds from the raging party. 

As George became absorbed in the music, the way he usually did, traveling to some far and unreachable place beyond the understanding of most, rumors flickered like sparks of electricity. The blue gardens came alight with enthusiasm. 

“I hear,” says one woman, “That every Tuesday morning the host orders seven crates of oranges, and has them squeezed into orange juice in this brand new machine near the garage. You know the garage, where he keeps that bright green car, that apparently you can see floating down Ocean Drive before the sunset on Friday.” 

“Well I heard the buzz is that he made all his money in  _ four  _ years.” Says one man, leaning in conspiratorially beneath the garden lights. 

“Three years?” Gasps another woman, a long cigarette holder in her hand. “That’s preposterous!” 

“It’s the truth!” The man insists. “I hear it’s all from bootlegging.” 

“Well I heard he went to Oxford.” Chimes in another man, a lipstick mark on his cheek. 

“Oxford?” The others echo. “In England?” 

The girl with the cigarette holder takes a puff, the shimmers on her skirt catching in the light. She leans in, voice low. The others struggle to hear her over the din of chatter and George’s gentle piano music. “I hear that he got his heartbroken there. That’s why he left and came here.” 

“But there’s no women in Oxford!” Exclaims the first girl.

The girl with the cigarette shrugs, leaning back. “I suppose love is a funny thing.” 

George begins to play Ravel’s  _ Jeux d’eau _ . His fingers light as air where they flow over the keys. A few people had stopped talking to quietly listen. George doesn't even notice, his eyes glued to the pages of music, fluttering softly in the salty air rolling off the sea. Oblivious to gossip and the way that if he had heard it, he probably would have walked out of the party and never returned. 

“Well, I heard,” Says a third man. The group so closely clustered together it was hard to tell one from the next. “That he doesn't even exist.” 

“Of course he exists!” Says the woman. “Perhaps he blends in as a guest. I suppose he could be any young man here.” 

Together, they all look out across the garden, lit up like a Christmas tree. Their gazes linger on every young man, trying to place a face and body to a man so wrapped in mystery no one truly knew if he existed. 

The woman with the cigarette holder settles on a tall man, with dark blonde hair and broad shoulders. She takes a drag from her cigarette. The man was watching the pianist as if he held all the secrets in the world. His eyes were wide and he gripped the chair as if afraid he would fall over. 

George finishes the piece, before beginning Chopin’s first nocturne. He barely stops, only taking the time to flip the page of his music. The piece stirs something in his gut, an old memory he refuses to acknowledge. He closes his eyes as he plays. He has the piece memorized already. 

A sharp gaze bears into him. George doesn't look up, does not acknowledge the presence. The gaze is hot enough that he feels as if he is burning up from the inside. He wants to tell them to go away as that old, unshakeable fear of being seen creeps up his spine. His hands falter, the tempo falling apart like a wrecked car. Most of the guests don’t notice, perhaps only the musically inclined look up with a slight frown. A bead of sweat drips down the side of his face, splashing against the keys. George swallows, urges the tempo to slow. He drags it back, kicking and screaming to something vaguely in the correct bpm. 

The burning gaze disappears. George isn’t sure how he knows that it is gone, he simply does. He breathes a sigh of relief, and risks glancing down at the mingling crowds. None of them are looking at him, not a single one. He sighs again, the last few notes of the song unspool like yarn from his fingers. 

The final note lingers in the muggy summer heat, and George pulls his hands into his lap, rubbing his face. He knows that he should not stop, not even for a moment to catch his breath, but he needs it to take his heart down to a respectable pace. He drags a hand down his face, flipping the folder with the other. He sighs when he sees the next piece, and skips it. He didn’t want to play repetitive sixteenth note runs. Not when his heart was working just as fast. 

He lays his hands against the keys when a voice says, “That was incredible.” 

George looks up sharply, and it’s as if he is being flung back in time, across the ocean and across his lifetime. So that’s where the burning gaze was coming from. 

**Oxford University, 1918**

He had thought he was alone. 

The sun was barely climbing over the horizon, the school grounds covered with a thick fog that smeared the world like an impression painting. Frost clung to the still-green lawns, just beginning to brown with autumn. The brick buildings stood grandly over the fog, they were older than everyone in the world, and they would live on to surpass all of them. 

It was a Saturday morning, and even the most motivated of students were taking the time to sleep in. But George had never been good at sleeping, so he found himself glued to the piano bench in the Holywell music room, the oldest custom built music hall in Europe. 

He wasn’t sure how he got here, but the white walls, empty red seats, and gleaming organ brought him some sense of peace. He was so absorbed in the music he didn’t even hear the door open, didn’t notice the figure who took a seat at one of the red benches until the last note of the piece rang across the room, swallowed by the ancient walls. 

Dream claps. Startled, George’s hands slip and strike a discorded cord. He turns sharply to Dream, face bright red. “What on earth are you doing here?” 

“Looking for you.” Dream says easily, his chin propped in his hand as he smiles lazily at George. “I just had to follow the most beautiful music in the world.” 

George looks away. “You don’t mean that.” 

“I do.” Dream stands, his long legs easily stepping over the benches as he makes his way towards George. “You should play for people.” 

“I barely even play for you, Dream. Much less other people.” George says, scooting over on the bench so Dream can sit beside him. 

“You should.” He insists earnestly. “You could play all over Europe. Even America.” 

George thinks of a sea of faces all watching him, their undivided attention in his hands. His stomach rolls uncomfortably with the idea, and he shakes his head. Dream’s smile falters slightly, before he replaces it, just as blinding as before. How he has this much energy at 5 o’clock in the morning is beyond George. 

“What’s this button do?” Dream asks, changing the subject. He points to a seemingly random key. 

George smiles lightly, taking Dream’s large hand in his and gently pressing his finger against the key. “That’s middle f.”

“Is it?” 

George smacks his arm. “Don’t be a smartass.” 

“What about this one?” He plays another chord at random, watching as George organizes his music. 

Without looking up he replies, “G.” 

Dream raises his eyebrows, striking a chord. “And this one?”

“E flat.” George flips the page, pushing Dream’s hands off the keys. 

“How do you do that?” Dream asks incredulously. 

George glances at him. “Hm? Know which note you’re playing?” 

“Yes! It’s incredible.” 

“It’s called perfect pitch.” He replies, smacking Dream’s hand away as he goes to play another key. “It’s basically a requirement to get into the music program at Oxford.” 

Dream blinks at him, and George goes red under his gaze. “You’re a marvel.” 

George looks away, trying to hide his smile as his stomach flutters. “I am not.” 

“Yes you are!” Dream insists as George starts playing again, working through a tough spot he hasn’t quite gotten right. “George! Don’t ignore me!” 

George keeps playing, doing a terrible job at pretending like he doesn't care. Dream kisses his cheek, his hair, his chin. George’s playing falters, laughing at Dream’s antics before he turns to kiss him properly. 

The kiss is short and burning, and it leaves both of them aching terribly. They can’t risk being seen, and they both pull away reluctantly. 

“One day,” Dream says, when they’re still sitting a little too close to one another. “I’ll take you to America. I’ll show you a proper beach, with palm trees and flowers and everything.” 

George hums. “I’ve always wanted to see a palm tree.” 

“I’ll plant some for you.” Dream insists, and sometimes looking at him is like looking into the summer sun. Dream was so intense, his emotions flowed like rain. Sometimes George wasn’t sure what to do with the pure adoration he found in Dream’s gaze. It never failed to take his breath away, or make his heart beat faster. 

“You’ll plant some?” George echoes. 

Dream nods quickly. “A whole garden of palm trees.” 

“You’re too much.” George mumbles, smiling. 

“Only for you.” Dream insists, just as the fog outside turns to rain. It drums lightly against the roof, smatters the windows. 

“I forgot an umbrella.” Dream says after a moment. 

“I’ve got one. We can share.” George replies, leaning forward with a pencil to make a mark on the music. “Now, could you be quiet for twenty minutes? I really need to get this part.” 

Dream grins. “I’ll be quiet if I can kiss you.” 

“I will kick you out.” 

“Into the rain?” 

“Yes.” He says, as he begins to play. It was one of those insane Schumann runs, where George’s fingers were moving too fast for him to even look at the music. The only way to play it was to memorize it, and memorization had never been George’s strong suit. Dream just watches, fascinated by George. He doesn't complain when Dream kisses his cheek again, although he probably should. 

Outside the rain falls, the campus blooming to life. George doesn't notice the clock ticking away in the corner, not the way Dream does. Every tick of the minute hand is like a hammer to the side of the head. He tries not to think about it. Thinks of George instead, and everything Dream isn’t telling him. 

**Miami, Florida 1922**

“That was incredible.” 

George’s breath catches in his throat, his eyes stuck on the black and white piano keys. The voice is like a bucket of cold water being poured over his head. It’s just as he remembers it. He had heard the voice laughing, he’d heard it boiling with anger, trodden with sadness, groggy with sleep, heavy with heat, and bright with joy. He heard it in his dreams, and the quiet moments where George actually allowed himself to think about his past. But he had never expected to hear it again. 

George is quiet for so long that Dream opens his mouth to repeat the statement, although Dream knows he heard. All George can really hear is the rushing of blood in his own head, every single one of his nerves alight like lightning. 

In a flash, George is stuffing his music folders back into his suitcase, and slamming the lid over the piano keys. His heart pounds, and the smell of the sea and flowers becomes overwhelming until he’s drowning in it. His head echoes his name over and over again;  _ Dream, Dream, Dream.  _

“George.” Dream tries, and it sounds as if he is speaking underwater. 

George doesn't look at him as he clicks his suitcase shut. He stands quickly, heart pounding because Jesus, he couldn’t do this right now. He wasn’t a strong enough man to see Dream again. He never should have come to Miami, never should have left Europe. 

George tries to push past him, but Dream blocks him. His green eyes are wide, desperate in a way George has never seen them. He almost falters, almost caves and allows Dream to pull him back, to touch him. Instead, he grits his teeth and hisses, “Move.” 

“George, please.” 

“Don’t do that.” George snaps at him, and he might as well have slapped Dream across the face, because Dream looks at him as if he’d been hit. “Don’t say my fucking name.”  _ Don’t say it like that _ . 

“Can we just talk?” Dream pleads. 

George pushes past him, storming through the quiet hallways and towards the pulsing heart of the party. The music thuds through the floor into his chest. Dream grabs his elbow, and this time George pushes him away. 

Dream releases his elbow, stepping back.

“Don’t touch me.” He snaps. 

Dream takes another step back. Despite his own anger, George sort of wants him to come closer. Shame burns hotly through him at the thought. Dream was supposed to be nothing more than a memory, a college fling that never went anywhere and ended in heartbreak. Heartbreak he inevitably still carried with him. 

Perhaps a part of George’s soul would always be in Oxford, tucked between Dream’s hands. George likes to think that Dream felt the same way, but it doesn't change the fact that they were never supposed to have met again. 

“I used to touch you.” Dream speaks carefully, slow as a pressure cooker. “All the time.” 

Memories rise, unbidden in George’s mind. He wonders if Dream thinks of the same ones- messily making out in the dorms, their first time at a gay bar, George guiding Dream’s hands across the piano, Dream pressing George against a wall, fingers burning marks against his skin. 

“This is not  _ back then _ .” George replies, hands shaking slightly. 

“I know.” Dream’s voice drips with sadness. “I’ve missed you.” 

“Then you shouldn’t have lied and then left without a word.” George hisses furiously. 

“It’s my deepest regret, George.” Dream admits. “I think of you. Always.” 

George storms off at that, Dream following like a puppy. He had forgotten how Dream tended to just  _ say things  _ like that, completely unbidden. Four years ago it had been sweet, made George’s headspin with the overabundance of love. Now it makes his stomach lurch, and he can’t decide if he likes it or not.

“Where are you going?” Dream asks. 

“I’m leaving, Dream.” 

Dream’s eyes widen, and he follows quickly behind George. His black oxfords click against the floor. Breathlessly he asks, “Are you certain?” 

“I’ve never been more certain about anything.” George starts down the stairs, the party a beating heart of people and noise beneath them. What he wouldn’t give to get roaring drunk, to disappear in the crowds and wake up in a stranger’s bed, forget he ever had a reason to be at this party other than to get drunk. He mostly just wanted to forget he saw Dream’s face. 

“I know you want to speak with me.” Dream almost pleads, following him down the curling stairs. “You wish to speak with me just as much as I wish to speak with you.” 

“What is there to say?” George turns, halfway down the steps and faces Dream. “If you wanted to see me so bad, you could have written or visited. You had my address. But you never did. It was as if the world swallowed you, Dream. I began to wonder if I had honestly dreamt you up.” 

“George-” 

“Leave me.” He hisses. “Let me go, just as you did four years ago.” 

“It wasn’t my fault.” 

George nearly explodes right there on the steps in front of hundreds of people. “How the fuck is it not your fault?” 

“I-” Dream begins, then shakes his head. “Come with me?” 

“No.” 

“I’ll get you a drink.” 

George glances up sharply. He wonders if Dream is thinking the same thing as him- how he used to get absolutely pissed drunk, until he had forgotten what it was like to be sober. It had gotten worse after Dream left, but after George crashed some rich boy’s car, it caused him to reassess some things in his life. 

“I don’t want your pity champagne.” George continues down the stairs, into the crowd. 

Dream follows closely, struggling to slip through the crowd the same way George does. He can see the front door, just down the hallway. He doesn't have a car, but it was fine. He could walk to the nearest tram station. 

Just as he is reaching the hallway, Bad is grabbing at him. George flinches back, but he had somehow lost Dream in the mayhem. A cocktail of relief and disappointment mixes in his gut as he looks around for him. 

“What on earth are you doing?” Bad demands. “I didn’t hire you to dance.” 

“I was actually just leaving.” 

“Leaving?” Bad exclaims, although he didn’t sound like he was good at being angry. “What for?” 

“Ran into somebody, that’s all. Can I please go?” 

“No. I need a pianist out there.” 

He gestures at the party. “I’m sure someone in this crowd is a pianist.” 

Bad holds the bridge of his nose and sighs. His face is creased with worry lines and he begins walking towards the gardens, away from the front door. “I need you, George. No other pianist is good enough.” 

“I’m hardly above average.” His hands shake slightly from the conversation with Dream. He looks around desperately for him. No way would Dream have just let him go again. 

“You owe me.” Bad insists, guiding him back up the stairs. 

George sighs, rubbing his temples. He really, really shouldn’t. “Can you get me a drink?” 

Bad deposits him back at the balcony, arms crossed like an angry mother. “If I get you a drink will you play?” 

George considers it. “Yes.” 

“Fine. I’ll be back.” 

George doesn't start playing until Bad returns, and he’s amazed when he comes back with a bottle of whiskey. Bad slams it beside the piano, and George winces at the noise. “Will this keep you?” 

George swallows, eyes the amber liquid sloshing around. Dimly, he remembers that it’s illegal, and he hates that it sends a thrill down his spine. “Yes. But I won’t be back.” 

“Deal.” Bad agrees, before turning away and leaving George with an ocean of thoughts, a grand piano, and a bottle of whiskey. It was a combination for a bomb. George unscrews the cap, and takes a long sip, relishing the burn. 

When he plays, it’s like a tsunami. Anger flowering into every pound of the keys, every screaming, ridiculously complex run that has the crowd gazing at him, whispering about how entirely inappropriate the pieces were for the gathering. 

George doesn't care. The old wound in his chest has been torn open, scooped out and bleeding on the floor. The notes scream like molten lava, each one a slap in the face. He’s never been great at expressing his emotions, he hates feeling vulnerable. But with a piano in front of him, it came naturally, the emotions practically exploding out of him. 

He knew that somewhere, Dream was watching him. George knew he would understand the frustration in the piece, and he is beyond thankful that for the rest of the night, no one approaches him. Perhaps it was rather obvious that he wasn’t in a stable mood, and by the end of the night when the last drunken guests were staggering out, George had drunk half the bottle of whiskey, and burned through every angry piece he knows. 

Gently, Dream places a hand on his shoulder. Exhausted, George’s cramping fingers fall away from the keys. The wind blows from the sea, ruffling the leaves of the palm trees and the blue flowers. The pages of music turn in the wind, and George doesn't have the energy to push Dream away. 

“What,” George pauses, searching for words. His throat feels dried out, as if he’d been crying. “What were you going to show me earlier?” 

“Come with me?” Dream asks, uncertainty clouding his voice. It’s not a tone George is used to hearing. He stands up nonetheless, gathering his music again and the half-empty whiskey bottle that Dream eyes distastefully. 

He guides him through the winding maze of his house. They walk by passed out guests, and a few still determinedly trying to dance, even as the orchestra is packing up their instruments. The floors are sticky with alcohol and confetti, a handful of pink feathers scattered across the marble. 

Dream leads him to a more private section of the house, and into a bedroom. If George was even the slightest bit more sober, he would have left. As it stands, he isn’t. He flops down on Dream’s bed, watching him rifle through some drawers, his hands noticeably shaking. 

Eventually, he pulls out a photo in a glass frame and hands it to George. He sets the whiskey and his suitcase down, taking the photograph. It’s of Dream, perhaps a few years younger than he is now. He looks just as he did before he left Oxford. What makes him pause is the uniform, the muddy background, the rifle in his hands. 

The color drains from George’s face. It takes him a long moment to answer, Dream shifting nervously a few feet away. It’s as if, not for the first time, that Dream has smashed his world into thousands of glass pieces. He fights the urge to throw the photograph, watch the frame crumble and fall apart. 

He swallows the lump in his throat, the photo shaking in his hands. “You were drafted.” 

Dream nods, taking the picture away. “I didn’t know how to tell you.” 

George thinks he’s probably right. He doesn't know what kind of shit he would’ve done if he had found out that Dream was going to war. George had been able to avoid the draft because of his scholarship, and a few good words from his professors. Dream, who had never bothered to make the best connections, had not been able to avoid it. 

“Did you see combat?” George asks, voice quiet. 

“Sort of. The war was just about over when I arrived in Europe after basic training in America.” He pauses. “I saw maybe two battles. Three.” 

George shakes his head. “You should have told me. I thought you hated me.” 

“I should have gone back to you.” Dream corrects, sitting beside him on the bed after rolling the bottle of whiskey away. “But I didn’t. I’m sorry.” 

“I’m still mad, Dream.” George mutters, but now all he feels is hollowed out like an exploded shell. He taps his hands against his own thigh, pretends it’s a piano. It settles his nerves like whiskey. 

“I understand.” Dream replies slowly. “I just- I still love you, George. When I got back, I went to Oxford and you were gone. No one knew where you went or what you were doing. It was like getting punched in the gut. I probably deserved it, but I didn’t know what to do without you.” 

George’s head spins. Dream still loved him, four years later and he still loved him. Could George say the same? He chews his lips. He supposes, of all the places in the world, he did choose Miami. That has to mean something. 

But it’s still too much. He had never come to this party expecting to be reunited with his old college fling, who he admittingly thought about a little too often. It wasn’t as if George had spent the last four years feeling as if he’d been flung out into space. He took gigs when he could get them, first in England and Europe and then in America. He was good enough to sell out concert venues, but he never took the leap. He felt unbound, untethered. At first it had been freeing, but the ache in his chest that was vaguely Dream-shaped never healed. 

“I have to go.” He mutters, standing quickly. The blood rushes to his head, his legs woozy from the alcohol. Dream reaches out to steady him, but George pushes him away again. 

“Stay the night?” Dream pleads suddenly, looking up at him. 

_ He has more freckles now _ . George thinks, too drunk to push away the thought.  _ His eyelashes are so long _ . 

George looks around, frazzled by the question. “Here?” 

“In a spare room.” Dream insists, lighting up with the fact that George is actually considering the idea. “I have plenty.” 

George pretends to think for a moment, but really he already knows his answer. “No.” 

Apparently he wasn’t as drunk as he thought himself to be. He still maintained some level of sobriety. 

Dream’s face falters. “Will you at least let me drive you home?” 

George sighs. “Dream-” 

“You shouldn’t walk around at night.” Dream rises to his feet, and now George has to crane his neck to look up at him. “Not when you’re halfway through a bottle of whiskey.” 

“I’m perfectly sober.” George persists, staggering towards the open door. 

Dream, trying not to laugh, asks, “Where are you going?” 

“Home.” 

“That’s the balcony, George.” He snickers, gently pulling him away and towards the right door. The smell of the ocean and blue hydrangeas fills the room. “I’ll be quick. I’ll never bother you again.” 

“Fine.” George relents, but only because he doesn't want to walk all the way home or shell out the money for a ride. Maybe he was just curious as to what sort of car Dream drove, what it would feel like to be beside him one more time. Dream smiles, holding out his hand. Against his better judgement, George takes it. 

Dream’s car as it turns out, is a dark green Rolls Royce Phantom. The sort of car that makes people’s heads turn. George feels a guilty thrill pass through him as he takes his spot in the passenger seat. Dream pulls out of the garage, and through the towering iron gates crowded with ivy that guard his house. The car hums around them, the top pulled down. George takes a long sip of the whiskey, trying to ignore the way Dream looks at him as they roll out onto a larger road. 

“Where are we going?” Dream asks, flicking on the headlights. 

“West. Flagler Street is probably the fastest way.” 

Dream nods as the car races past houses just as loud and extravagant as his own. The wind smells unmistakably of the sea, the palm trees waving above them, the air suffocatingly thick with humidity. George leans his head back against the seat, staring straight up at the starless sky. The crescent moon winks down at him. 

“Can I see you again?” Dream asks as they turn onto a busier street, the car picking up speed. 

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll wander into your party again.” 

Dream glances at him, the city lights flashing across his face. It’s so different from the marble halls of Oxford, the english snow and the scent of old books. Now they’re throwing themselves into the beating heart of America’s most infamous tourist town, the summer heat dripping around them, the lights of the Flagler street hotels and casinos blazing down. 

Dream smiles, his voice soft. “You mean it?” 

“Yeah.” He says slowly. Maybe it’s the whiskey, maybe it’s his poor bleeding heart. Perhaps it’s the glamour of their times, or maybe it’s just Dream’s smile. “I do.” 

George  awoke alone, with a splitting headache and a sliver of sunlight cutting through the curtains of his room. He groaned, cringing at the light and slapping his hands over his eyes. With every beat of his heart the pain in his head worsened, like a crowbar was being pushed into his skull. 

George stumbles to his feet, quickly shutting the curtains. The sound of honking cars and the early morning crowds filter through his thin walls and George rubs his splitting temples, trying to remember what reason he had for getting this drunk last night. 

Right. Dream. That was a pretty good reason to get absolutely wasted. 

When he shuts his eyes he can still feel his hand in his, the pound of hundreds of people and the brag of an orchestra. He remembers driving down Flagler Street in the nicest car he had even seen in his life, the shadows of palm trees falling over Dream’s bright face. 

He groans miserably, rubbing his temples again as he looks around his room. Even this early in the morning, the heat was oppressive. Air conditioning was a luxury only the richest could afford, and George’s tiny apartment in Little Havana was pretty far from being able to afford air conditioning. Outside, a Cuban brass band starts tuning and George groans again. Four years at Oxford and this was what his life had amounted to. 

He supposes it could be worse. In the four years since he’d graduated and seen Dream, he had lived all over the world. A ship with no anchor, as Wilbur had called him. He had traveled war-torn Europe with a volunteer Red Cross orchestra, took a brief stint into Mexico where he met one of his best friends, then spent six months in every major east coast city before finally stopping in Miami. He never meant to stay in Florida for more than a year, but he was coming up on six months and had made no new plans to move again. In the last four years, he had lived in far worse places than this shrewd apartment. 

He looks up to the clock on the far wall with a sigh. He had a lunchtime gig in about three hours at one of the new hotel restaurants on Miami Beach. After that he had another one at a casino bar. He stumbles towards the kitchen, still rubbing his temples. Such was the life of a starving artist. 

George pours himself a glass of water. His kitchen was so small that if he stretched his arms out he could touch both walls. A thin window looked out over the street, across from which was a bustling speakeasy. Even at this hour, gangsters and businessmen trickled inside to make their deals. 

He wonders what on earth he was supposed to do now. He wasn’t sure he could just go back to his normal life, not now that he knew Dream was here, only a thirty minute cab ride away. He finishes his water and pours himself another, his mind still reeling from last night. 

He told Dream he would wander into one of his parties again, but the thought of forcing himself back into that grand house and the crush of people made his stomach turn. Hell, he didn’t even know when the next party would be. 

Turns out, he didn’t have to worry about that because the next thing he knows the shrill buzz of his doorbell is splitting his head in half again. George cringes, holding his head and praying that the buzzing will just go away. 

After about two minutes, it becomes rather apparent that the buzzing is in fact, not about to go away. He shuffles towards the front door, and holds the buzzer down. Voiced laced with annoyance, he demands, “Who is it?” 

The person on the other end laughs, voice staticky through the com. “It’s Dream.” 

George sighs. “What are you doing here?” 

“I forgot to pay you.” 

He holds the bridge of his nose. If Dream had said anything else, George probably would have pushed him away again. But he really needed to pay his water bill. He holds down the buzzer and says, “Give me five minutes.” 

He doesn't give Dream a chance to respond as he scrambles to put on a presentable outfit and part his hair. He forgoes the gel this morning, and stumbles down the stairs. The stairwell reeks of cigar smoke, but when he reaches the bottom and opens the door, Dream is leaning against the wall smoking his own cigarette. He looks a little too presentable for nine in the morning, especially considering that he dropped George off at about four. 

Dream grins crookedly at him, and George’s eyes flit past him to the car parked on the street. His mouth falls open as he hisses, “Dream! You can’t bring that type of car here!” 

“Hm?” Dream glances back at his Rolls Royce before shrugging. “She’ll be fine.” 

“It’s gonna get stolen!” 

“I’m right here. It’ll be fine.” 

George raises an unimpressed eyebrow, especially considering a few people were not so subtly gawking at the car. George decides that if it gets stolen, he’ll just laugh. He’s pretty sure that Dream will just buy another one. 

“Do you,” he pauses, glancing around. Dream releases a lungful of smoke, and it clouds up between them. “Want to come upstairs?” 

Dream’s eyes widen. “You want me to come upstairs?” 

“It’ll only be a minute.” George glances at the car. It gleams in the sun like a freshly minted coin. Maybe he’d be a little sad if it was stolen. 

Dream stubs out his cigarette under his shoe. The ash leaves a shadow on the concrete. “Alright.” 

George guides him back up the stairs, where a little kid had planted himself outside of his parent’s apartment and was fruitlessly attempting to get a noise out of a trumpet. George unlocks his apartment, ushering Dream in before anyone can see. 

Dream looks around, and George tenses. The size of his apartment probably has the same amount of square feet as Dream’s bedroom. He urges away the thought. Dream knew what it was like to be poor, he’d just somehow been one of the lucky ones to pull himself out of it. George supposes he’d always known Dream would find a way out of poverty. He had always been horribly determined, always thought a few steps ahead of everyone else. 

Regardless, George braces himself for the comment about his living situation. He thinks Dream might have said something last night, but George is pretty sure he never brought him up to his apartment. 

Instead all Dream asks is, “Where’s your piano?” 

“I can’t afford one.” George says simply, rifling through the cabinets for his french press. “And I would probably get a noise complaint.” 

Dream, for some unfathomable reason, seems horrified by this. “You should have a piano, George.” 

“I can just walk four blocks east to Wilbur’s. He lets me practice on his.” He explains, finally finding the coffee maker and setting it on the counter. From down the hallway the kid finally gets a note out on the trumpet and George can’t help smiling. Deep down, he loved Little Havana. Although jazz wasn’t really his scene, he loved being around other musicians. Miami was full of life and sound and brightness, whereas England was grey, bogged down by war and centuries of heavy history. Miami felt like Dream. 

George glances at Dream, who is frowning so hard he’ll form wrinkles. It’s so odd to see him standing in his tiny kitchen, almost as odd as seeing him at all. He had convinced himself that Dream had been flung to some far-corner of the world, the memory of George wiped from his mind like old chalk. But he was here, frowning in George’s apartment at nine in the morning as the sun rose and the humidity thickened. 

George sighs. “Dream, it’s fine.” 

“I’ll buy you one.” He declares. “What model? I know someone with a few good Steinways.” 

George sets the coffee grounds on the counter and begins heating water on the stove. He’s pretty sure Dream still likes coffee. 

“Dream, don’t buy me a piano. Where the fuck would I even put it?” He gestures at his apartment, laid out in the railroad style where one room leads directly into the next, reminiscent of the old New York tenants. Hell, there’s a bathtub in the middle of his kitchen with a slab of wood over it that he’s calling it a table. He has no room for a piano. 

Dream sits in one of the two spindly wooden chairs. He thankfully doesn't point out the bathtub. “You could come to my place and practice. I’ve got an organ, too.” 

George nearly drops the coffee grounds. “Why the hell have you got an organ?” 

“I don’t know. It came with the house.” 

He rubs his temple. He hadn’t even had his coffee yet and he was having this conversation, but he feels compelled to ask one of the questions that’s been bugging him since he found out that the colossal house was Dream’s. 

“Where did you even get all that money, Dream?” George demands as the water begins to boil. He pours it through the press, steeping the grounds. “At Oxford you could scarcely afford your own shoes. That was only four years ago.” That was an exaggeration, but his point still stood. 

Dream looks around. Anywhere but at George. “Can we talk about this later?” 

“No, Dream. We can’t.” The heated water turns a dark brown, slowly steeping into coffee. The scent fills the room. 

“I started rum running as soon as I got home from France.” He admits. “I was one of the first to start doing it, made a lot of dough just from that.” 

George forces the press down, the top filling with filtered coffee. “You don’t get that rich from rum running.” 

“I invested in real estate in Miami.” Dreams adds. “And I bought an orange grove.” 

For the second time that day, he almost drops the mug in his hands. George thinks of them, sitting side by side on a bench outside of the Bodleian Library as snow falls. He remembers Dream pulling an orange from his pocket, his long fingers tearing off the peal and dropping it onto the snowy cobblestone, a bright dash of color in the muted winter grey. Dream had pushed his thumb through the center, splitting it in half. He gave the bigger half to George. 

“An orange grove?” He repeats numbly, his hands still.

“Yes.” Dream brightens. “Would you like to see it? It’s about an hour or so north of here.” 

“I-” He takes a deep breath, willing himself to pour the coffee. Out of everything, this was what left him speechless? “I have gigs today.” 

“Oh.” Dream says, voice stained with disappointment. “Where?” 

“A hotel restaurant and a casino. Why?” 

“What about tomorrow?” Dream asks, leaning forward in his chair. George slides a mug across the bathtub table and sits across from him with his own. 

“I’m booked tomorrow as well. I’m free Tuesday, though.”  _ What the fuck is he doing?  _

Dream’s eyes light up. “Tuesday? Yeah, yeah. Tuesday is good.” He would have rearranged his whole schedule for George. 

“Alright.” George agrees, sipping his coffee. He grimaces at the taste, wordlessly opening a drawer and dumping a splash of whiskey into it. Perhaps the Irish did some things right. 

Dream watches him with a frown but all he says is, “Tuesday works.”

George smiles into his coffee, failing miserably to hide his grin. 

He stops by Wilbur’s store in between gigs. His fingers are cramped and tired from the endless playing, although it’s a familiar ache. His suitcase is at his side and strides past the jazz groups huddled on the streets. The sun was just beginning to set towards the west, and the late afternoon was unbearably hot. George pulls at his collar and prays he doesn't sweat through his suit and have to change before the casino gig. 

He pushes open the door to Wilbur’s store, sighing as he enters the air conditioned building. The lights were low in the shop, and one side boasted a wall full of vinyls while the other held shining brass instruments and clarinets. Racks of cellos and massive basses were pushed towards the middle. A large fan spun lazily above, and a bell chimed announcing his arrival. 

A blond head pokes up from behind the counter. Tommy opens his mouth to greet him, before evidently realizing who it is and scowling. “Breeze off.” 

“Where’s your brother?” George asks. 

“Which one?” Tommy replies, setting a heavy box of records on the counter. 

George rolls his eyes. “The only one I talk to.” 

“You’re an annoying egg, George.” 

George resists the urge to roll his eyes again. He had almost forgotten Tommy’s weird obsession with American slang, which he was desperately trying to force into his vocabulary. He knew Wilbur found it endearing, but probably because he was the one who taught Tommy all of it. 

He sighs. “If he isn’t here you can just tell me.” 

Tommy lifts another crate of records onto the counter. A phonograph plays some Beethoven piece in the background. “He’s upstairs.”

“Was that so hard?” 

“I’ll drill your conk so full of lead that the best croaker in the world won’t be able to save you from the big one.” Tommy snaps, dragging one of the crates over to the vinyl wall. 

George just blinks and decides against trying to decipher all that. Instead he just shakes his head and climbs the rickety stairs upwards. They creak under his feet, smelling heavily of tobacco. and 

Upstairs, he finds Wilbur fruitlessly attempting to write a song on the grand piano. Wilbur looks up as he comes in and grins. “Gogy! Just the man I needed, say how does this bit sound,” he clears his throat and plays a little run. “ _ Five foot two eyes of blue, oh, what those five feet could do-”  _

“Stop, stop.” George says, trying not to laugh. “That’s literally a Gene Austin song.” 

“Is it?” 

“Yes!” 

Wilbur frowns at his sheet music then crumples it up. “I was just testing you.” 

George snorts. “Right.” 

“Right.” Wilbur agrees, tossing the music. He smiles, quickly changing the subject. “What brings you here? Do you need the piano?” 

George sighs, collapsing into a chair and Wilbut turns towards him, eyebrows raised. George gorans and rubs his face, which is just an excuse to hide his face. “I fucked up.” 

Wilbur laughs and plays a quick scale across the piano. “And you came for my first rate advice?” 

“It’s bad.” George drags his hands from his face, staring up at the twirling ceiling fan. “You might kick me out.” 

“Are the coppers on you?” Wilbur asks, leaning forward with a massive grin. 

“No nothing like that.” George sounds unbearably tired. It takes him a moment to finally tell Wilbur why he was even here, the admission heavy on his tongue. “I saw Dream again.” 

Of all the things Wilbur had expected George to say,  _ Dream _ was pretty low on the list. He blinks back his surprise, trying to read George’s face. But when George didn’t want to be read, it was nearly impossible. Wilbur sighs, running a hand through his hair. “What happened?” 

George continues to stare at the ceiling again as Wilbur lights a cigarette. “I got hired to perform at a party, didn’t think much of it. It was for a good sum of dough, too. Turns out the rich fellow who owned the house just happened to be Dream.” 

Wilbur frowns. “I thought Dream was poor?” 

“Last time I saw him he was! Now he’s gotta be one of the richest men in Florida. He told me it was from rum running, real-estate investing, and some orange grove he owns. Anyways, we got into a big fight at the party. Then I got drunk and-” 

“Don’t tell me you kissed him!” Wilbur hisses. 

George splutters, face red as he finally looks away from the ceiling. “I didn’t get  _ that  _ smoked. Just enough to let him drive me home.” 

Wilbur’s face softens slightly. “That's not that bad-” 

“Then he showed up this morning!” George exclaims. 

Wilbur’s face falls. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,  _ oh _ .” George starts lighting his own cigarette, hands shaky. “He came over to pay me, oh and this is good, guess how much he gave me.” 

“Thirty dollars?” 

“That’s what I was originally being paid.” George explains. “But he gave me one-hundred dollars.” 

Wilbur’s mouth falls open in disbelief. “One-hundred dollars?” 

“Yeah! It was right as he was leaving, too. I didn’t even see the money until he was gone. He also invited me to spend the day with him on Tuesday to go see his orange grove.” 

Wilbur runs his hand through his hair again. “Don’t tell me you said yes.” 

“In my defense, I was hungover.” 

Wilbur leans back and groans loudly. “What the fuck is wrong with you, George? That guy left you without a word! It took you years to get over him. I don’t know if you ever really did.” 

“Maybe I missed him!” George snaps. “More than I realized. More than I have a right too.” 

Wilbur sighs. “Did he tell you why he left?” 

George looks away. “Yeah.” 

“And?” 

He releases a shaky breath. His hands shake even more at the thought, imagining all the photos of the war he’s seen, the haunted countances of the veterans, arms blown off. 

“He was in the war, Wilbur. He got drafted.” George gazes out the window, the tall buildings of downtown Miami rising above the skyline. They were nothing compared to the new skyscrapers in New York, but impressive nonetheless. “He didn’t know how to tell me.” 

Once again, Wilbur is left speechless. Wilbur had also served as soon as he finished school, all the way back in 1915. Two years later he was injured badly enough that they sent him home, and Philza moved all of them to the US. If anyone knew what the war was like, it was Wilbur. 

“Oh.” He says dumbly. “That changes everything.” 

“Yeah.” George agrees, releasing a breath of smoke into the room. Even with the fan and air conditioning, the heat and humidity are just this side of unbearable. “It certainly does.” 

“Where’d he serve?” 

“I don’t know- France? We haven’t really talked about it yet.” He inhales on his cigarette, the butt turning a bright orange before he releases it. 

Wilbur just shakes his head, gazing at George with an unreadable expression. It doesn't take long before the room is filled with their combined smoke. As soon as George finishes one he goes to another. Wilbur does the same. 

“I never thought I’d hear about Dream again.” Wilbur admits sheepishly. “At least not when you were sober.” 

George snorts and tries not to think about how for so long he would take home any tall, blonde American boy he could find. It took a combined effort of Wilbur and Callahan’s insistence before he realized it probably was not smart to go through a long string of Dream substitutes. It wasn’t like any of them were gonna give him what Dream could. 

“I thought so too. I came to Miami because it seemed like everyone was moving here. I suppose I knew there was a slim chance I’d find Dream but,” He shakes his head, stopping himself from saying anything more. Wilbur gives him an odd look, like he already knows what George was going to say. 

“Well,” Wilbur says after a long moment. “If you ever bring him around, I’ll probably punch him a few times. Will that make you feel better?”

George laughs, stubbing out his cigarette. “Yeah. It probably would.” 

Dream picks him up on Tuesday morning in the same obnoxious green Rolls Royce that is quickly becoming familiar. George really doesn't know what he’s doing, agreeing to see Dream again, especially on his only day off. He thinks that a stronger man would have pushed Dream away, would have told him to fuck off and meant it. George leans against his window, the early sun shining over him. He lights a cigarette, hands shaking in anticipation. He half-expects Dream to ditch him, and George really wishes that Dream would. That after everything, Dream would really prove to be just that- a dream. A half-cooked daydream of desperation incarnate that George had made up to get himself through the bowels of poverty. 

But in the end, Dream does show up. He arrives exactly five minutes early, car gleaming in the sun. Dream looks up at the apartment building, his gaze meeting George’s. He tips his hat at him and George’s stomach does a stupid little flip. 

He hurries down the steps and slides into the passenger seat, still smoking the cigarette. Dream grins at him and looks at him like he can’t look away. 

“You came?” Dream asks, astonished. 

George raises an eyebrow. “Obviously.” 

He snorts, looking away and shifting the gear of the car. Air rushes back into George’s lungs in the absence of Dream’s burning gaze. He inhales again on the cigarette as Dream effortlessly pulls the car back onto the road, bearing north. Even this early in the morning the southern Florida heat is unbearable. George pulls at his collar, leaning into the wind. 

“Where is this orange grove of yours?” George has to shout to be heard above the wind and the engine. 

“About two hours from Miami.” Dream replies, adjusting his sunglasses. 

“Two hours?” George gasps. “I never said I wanted to spend the whole day with you!” 

Dream winces and George can’t tell if he’s exaggerating or genuine. “We used to spend all day together.” 

George hums in agreement. It was true that at Oxford they were nearly inseparable, despite Dream being a business major and George being a performance major. They used to walk each other to class, study in the library together, eat all three meals together, and even build their schedules around the other’s. George had forgotten how much his college years had been an endless onslaught of  _ together, together, together.  _

“You used to share oranges with me.” George says, unsure as to why he was bringing this up now. 

Dream glances at him before looking back at the road. He flexes one of his hands on the wheel, George watching the movement carefully. “I did.” 

“And now you own an orange grove?” 

Dream flexes his other hand and releases a stuttering breath. “Can I bum a smoke?” 

George takes his own cigarette and places it in Dream’s mouth. Dream frowns at him as he inhales, wondering why George didn’t just light a new one. George grins, taking the cigarette back and stealing his own puff. Dream blinks stupidly at him and George just taps the dashboard patiently. “Watch the road, Dream.” 

He grudgingly tears his eyes away, stopping at a red light. George smiles, taking the last puff on the cigarette before carelessly tossing it out onto the road. 

Eventually, Miami fades and they pass through the small tourist town of Hollywood, slowly taking shape between Miami and Fort Lauderdale. As the sun climbs into the endless sky, the humidity thickens like a gas, the palm trees swaying lazily in the breeze. George catches glimpses of the ocean between the buildings, and even after all this time it still makes his heart skip a beat. 

“When is your next gig?” Dream asks. 

“Tomorrow afternoon.” George answers. 

“Where?” 

George looks at him skeptically. “What? Are you gonna show up?” 

Dream focuses his eyes on the road. “I was only making conversation. You used to not be able to perform for more than a handful of people.” 

George isn’t sure if he’s saying it as a question or statement, but it has him reaching for the flask in his pocket nonetheless and taking a long sip. “You wanna know how I got over my stage fright?” 

“George.” 

He says it like a warning, like he already knows where this was going. George isn’t sure why he’s going to tell Dream this, if it’s smart to tell Dream, but he’s too far to back out now. “I get drunk.” 

“ _ George _ .” He says again, an edge in his voice. 

He laughs. “Not ossified. Just enough to take the edge off. To buzz a bit, you know. It helps me play better, and I forget the audience is there.” 

George knows that Dream doesn't understand. Dream doesn't touch alcohol, and George wishes despartley that he had the same set of morals and convictions that Dream had. But the moment he discovered that alcohol took away his stage fright, there had been no going back. 

Dream doesn't say anything for miles and miles. The city and ocean fade from sight and the sun climbs higher and higher into the blue sky. George is beginning to think that he  _ really  _ messed up, not there was very much that was salvageable between them, when Dream says, “It’s fine, George.” 

George looks at him. 

“Really, I mean it. You’ve always been smart.” He clears his throat. “Not rash like me.” 

“You’re not rash.” George says, frowning. The wind begins to smell faintly of oranges. “You think before you do anything. You think too long sometimes, get stuck in your head.” 

Dream swallows, flexes his hand against the steering wheel. “I’m only rash with you.” 

George lights another cigarette, jaw tight. Four years, and everything was both all the same and different. 

Eventually, they come to a stop in front of an old and dusty shop with a bright orange roof. Cardboard signs proudly advertised a box of Florida oranges for twenty-five cents, and George was surprised by the small crowd that the shop had gathered. Beyond it, lay acres and acres of orange trees. All of the trees were planted in neat lines as far as the eye could see. George scrambles out of the car, standing on his tip-toes to try and see how far they went. 

George turns to Dream, their previous conversation forgotten. “You own all this?” 

“I bought it from an old retired farmer with no heir. But yes, it’s all mine.” 

George stares at him, the late morning sun turning his hair gold. His freckles were darker than they’d been at Oxford, his skin tanner. Dream was taller, more sure of himself, but there was an undercurrent of something humming beneath his skin, something George could only describe as loss. 

Before he can say anything else, the door to the shop bursts open. A man about their age hurries out, and George hears Dream audibly sigh.

“Dream!” The man calls. “Finally made it, huh? Some egg from the FDA is inside!” 

Dream sighs again, removing his sunglasses as he looks apologetically towards George. “I should go take care of that.” 

“Are they going to arrest you?” 

Dream snorts. “God, no. Not unless I’m putting cyanide in my orange juice.” 

George smiles. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” 

“Hey, I hate to interrupt you two but Dream’s really gotta go.” The man says, pushing Dream through the door. 

“Wait for me?” Dream calls, hanging on to the door frame as the man continues to push at him. 

He should say no. “Yes.” 

Dream’s grin widens and he tips his hat at George before the man finally manages to push him through, slamming the rickety door shut behind Dream and learning against it. The man wipes the sweat from his brow, laughing. 

“There ain’t no goddamn egg from the FDA.” He cackles, shaking his head. “God, he’s too easy to mess with.” 

The smile melts from George’s face. “What?” 

The man finally looks at him. He’s slightly taller than George, with broad shoulders, dark hair and stubble, and an easy grin that falls away when he meets George’s eyes. His easy happiness is replaced by shock. “Holy shit.” 

George looks behind him. “What is it?” 

The man steps towards him, pulling off his sunglasses. George gives an indignant, ‘hey!’ but the man doesn't seem to notice. 

“Holy shit.” He says again. 

“Would you tell me what’s going on?” George snaps, snatching back his glasses. “The nerve of some Americans, Christ.” 

“ _ You’re  _ George?” The man gapes. 

George returns the sunglasses to his face. “Yes. And you are?” 

The man shakes his head, as if finally realizing how rude he was being. “I’m Sapnap. Old war buddy and business partner of Dream’s.” 

Oh. Well that explains it. “How do you know my name?”

Sapnap glances back at the door, but Dream is nowhere in sight. He tugs on George’s arm, leading him away from the dusty parking lot. George isn’t sure why he allows himself to be tugged along, perhaps it’s simply burning curiosity. 

Sapnap leads him just out of sight of the store, behind one of the orange trees. The trees are a bright green, the same color as Dream’s eyes. The trees are thrown against the background of the brilliant blue sky, bright with summer. Oranges hang from their boughs, heavy and ripe. The humid air is filled with their scent, sweet as perfume. George’s head spins. 

“How do you know my name?” He repeats as Sapnap looks around one more time. 

“It’s well- he had this photo. During the war.”

George pushes his sunglasses up into his hair, raising an eyebrow. “A photo?” 

“Yes.” Sapnap repeats, his eyes constantly flickering back towards the store. “By the end it got so worn and water-logged you couldn’t really see the picture no more. The corners were all rubbed raw. He didn’t want anyone to see it because it would probably get him a blue card, you know? But he let me see it, and well, I’d recognize the guy in that photo any day.” 

George’s stomach lurches as if he’d been dropped out of the sky. He blinks several times, uncomprehending. Dream kept a photo of him. When did he get a photo of him? Did he look at it, surrounded by the mud and blood of the western front? Did it give him peace? 

He grabs onto a tree branch to keep his knees from collapsing under him like a newborn calf. George’s hand closes over an orange on accident, the juice dripping down his fingers, down his arm. 

“He had,” he swallows, collecting his thoughts. “A photo?” 

“Yeah. It was of the two of you in some library. He said you hated him.” Sapnap explains, carefully watching George’s facial expressions. 

“I don’t understand.” 

Sapnap sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. “Yeah. I suppose you haven’t seen him the past four years. He was quite a sight, only mellowed out recently.” 

George’s mind spins. “I still don’t understand.” 

“Throughout the war it was always George this, George that. George, George, George. Always that stupid picture.” He shakes his head. “After the armistice I told him to go back to England, but he didn’t. He went back to Florida. Did a whole bunch of stupid shit and got stupid rich. But you wanna know something?”

George isn’t sure if he wants to know. He nods anyways. 

“Dream never stopped talking about you. Not once in those four years. The money,” 

A huge, sprawling house. 

“The parties,” 

Music, the crush of bodies. 

“The alcohol,” 

Whiskey burning like fire in his gut. 

“The pianos,” 

The Holywell music room and rain on the windows. 

“The palm trees and the blue flowers,” 

He’s always wanted to see a palm tree. __

“The car,” 

Green and green as far as the eye can see, humidity sticking to their bones. 

“The orange grove,” 

Sitting side by side, Dream handing him half an orange.   
“It was all for you.” Sapnap says, and George’s grip tightens. The juice leeks down his hand and drips onto the soil. “He threw every party hoping you would one day wander in. He constantly asked about you, but no one knew you.” 

“All,” His breath is gone. He can’t breathe. “All for me? For a guy he hasn’t seen in  _ four years _ ?” 

“I don’t quite get it myself.” Sapnap admits, shaking his head. “All that, and now he’s just invited you to go see his orange grove? The modesty of it.” 

“Yeah.” George breathes, orange juice seeping into his suit. The modesty of it. “Sort of takes your breath away.” 


	2. Like Pale Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //tw for blood at the end 
> 
> also you guys should listen to the instrumental Great Gatsby soundtrack from 2013 when you read this :)

**October, 1917**

“When I came to England,” Dream says, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The sky is dark with clouds that hang low over the rolling moors, and spit from the sea flings itself against their cheeks as the sky begins to drizzle. “I never expected it to be so green.” 

George kicks a pebble down the path, looking anywhere but Dream because everytime he does he feels himself blur, the edges of the world fading into Dream. George could drown in him, in his bright-eyed American optimism and his crooked grin. “All anyone says about England is how green it is.” 

Dream considers his statement, tilting his head to drink up the world. It’s beautiful, really it is. The moors run on endlessly, rolling like waves on an ocean. They are interrupted only by trees, just as green as the rest of the world. Ancient stone walls crisscross the fields, turning them into a patchwork quilt. Purple heather sits at their fee, and beyond that is the sea. The land curves gently against it, the waves lapping at the shore as if to say  _ I missed you.  _

“Well, I suppose that’s true.” Dream agrees. “But you can’t exactly see that in a postcard, can you?” 

“I suppose not.” George agrees, shivering as the wind picks up. It won’t be long until the both of them are soaked, but neither is keen to return to town and get on a train back to Oxford. They’re a few hours away, and it’s the last weekend before the new quarter. Together, they had scrounged up the money for a day trip to Devon. Dream had babbled on and on about seeing the entirety of England whilst he was there, and George had gotten very bad at saying no to Dream. 

“It’s my favorite color, you know.” Dream continues, looking over at George as he buries his face into the collar of his coat. 

It’s as simple as that. From that moment on, everytime George sees the color green, he thinks of Dream. 

“Green is nice.” George agrees. He wants to grab Dream’s hand more than anything in the world. “It’s very… you.” 

Dream grins, crooked and bright as always. He throws his arm over George’s shoulder, tugging him close and George’s head spins. He’s flying. “You think so?” 

He leans his head into Dream’s shoulder, offering more affection than he had given to anyone in  _ years _ . Dream pulls him even closer, blooming under the affection. They really should be more careful, but George is confident that nobody else is around for miles and miles. “I do.” 

“You like blue, right?” Dream asks as they both watch the distant waves crash against the cliffs. The sea is a dark and stormy grey, and the wind stinks of salt and wet grass. 

“I do.” He repeats again. “It’s very bright.” 

“I don’t know if I’d describe blue as bright.” Dream says. “But I suppose there are worse words for it.” 

“Well, not that shade of blue.” George gestures vaguely towards the rolling sea. “More like the sea on a clear day.” 

Dream nods, and for a moment all they do is stand there, clinging to one another in the misty afternoon as fog rolls off the sea and over the moors. The purple heather wavers in the wind and George wants to bottle this moment in a jar and return to it again and again. Their unsaid words lay between them, heavy and daunting. But for the first time, George begins to hope, really hope. 

He wants to ask it, the question dangerous and weighty against his tongue.  _ Are you like me? _

“It’s odd.” Dream says, George’s head still tucked against his shoulder. 

George glances at him, then back at the moors. “What’s odd?” 

“Seeing the sea from this direction. Usually the sun rises over the ocean, here it sets on the ocean.” 

“Well, we could take a train six hours east and see the ocean how you’re used to.” 

Dream laughs, shaking his head fondly. “What use is that? You and your tiny country.” 

George smiles and pokes Dream’s side, making them both laugh. It’s incredible really, they’ve known one another for a little over a month, but they had rarely separated since they first met. His mother used to say that one day he would find someone who he could simply be around, and there would be no question as to why they understood one another. 

At some point, George had started to doubt that philosophy. It was an idea that belonged to people who weren’t like him, who never had to worry about love. 

“It’s pretty here.” Dream whispers, and there is nowhere else in the world he would rather be. But if he squints, he swears he can see the ash rising off of France. He wonders if Dream thinks of it too, if his mind always circles back to the war. 

“It is.” George agrees quietly, leaning in even closer. His gaze is still fixed on the sea and the green moors, but he feels Dream’s eyes on him. It’s a steady pressure, and Dream looks at him with a gentleness that George scarcely understands. “I’m glad we came.” 

Dream hums in agreement before he untangles himself from George. Without Dream at his side, he feels exposed. Cut open and raw, the wind and sea spit biting into his side. But Dream doesn't go far, only far enough to bend down and pluck a piece of heather from the earth. George already knows what he’s going to do before Dream even does it. 

“ _ Dream _ .” He warns, but Dream has never paid attention to warnings. With a gleaming smile he tucks the heather into George’s lapel, beaming as if he’d just found the cure to influenza. In spite of himself, George smiles back. 

“What was that for?” He asks. 

Dream shrugs. “I thought you would like it.” 

The urge to reach out and take Dream’s hand stirs in his gut once more, and instead of fighting against it George reaches out and takes it. He has spent hours studying Dream’s hands. He has seen them writing, seen them limp with sleep, seen them pressed against piano keys, George has seen them curled in frustration and flexed with want. Now he sees them in his own, and all other thoughts fizzle out. 

His hands are broad, built as though they were made for farming and labor. His pinky is crooked slightly, and there is a thin white scar on the back of his knuckles. His palms are filled with callouses, and there is another callous on his middle finger where he rests his pen. They seem to encompass Dream, and George thinks he can learn all there is to a man by their hands. Dream holds his like they are something to be treasured, worshipped on this windy moor in the south of England. 

“George.” Dream mutters, eyes wide as he stares at him. Without saying anything more, Dream lifts their hands. George wonders if he can feel his fluttering pulse in his wrist as he presses his lips to the back of his hand. 

George’s breath catches in his throat when Dream’s eyes look towards his. They are green as the moors, his cheeks flushed like the heather. Something in George snaps then, and before he knows what he is doing, before he can search for wandering eyes, he grabs the sides of Dream’s face and yanks him down. 

Dream’s lips are soft against his and his hands stray towards George’s hips as he yanks him closer. He is Icarus, flown too close to the sun and burning up under Dream’s touch. George gasps, parting his lips, and Dream kisses him harder. Both of their visions swim, narrow, blur and focus into each other. It is better than any sip of whiskey, than any drag of a cigarette. 

“Dream.” George whispers against his mouth, his voice raw and burnt. Dream pulls him back hungrily, desperately. George gets it, he really does. His hands tangle in Dream’s hair, his thumbs tracing the freckles on his cheeks. He has never felt like this before, he had spent his whole life believing he would never get something like this. 

Dream’s hands find skin and George hums into his mouth. The wind increases, and when the day is done they will both smell of the sea and heather, and George will see nothing but green. Green, the color of love. 

It’s the start of everything. 

**Summer, 1922**

The orange juice continues its steady trickle down George’s arm as the memory fades. Sapnap gives him a concerned look, and distantly he could hear Dream calling for him. With every passing moment his calls grew more strained, and George’s stomach twists. But he stood instead in a state of shock, attempting to process what Sapnap had just told him. 

“You should go back.” Sapnap tells him gently, as if he is handling a live bomb. “You know how he gets when he’s worried.” 

George removes his fingers from the orange with a squelching noise. It falls lamely to the ground, rolling along the dirt before coming to a stop. There are holes in it’s skin exactly where George’s fingers had been. He reaches for his flask and takes a long sip until it’s almost gone. Sapnap watches wordlessly, eyebrows raised as if he can’t believe that  _ this  _ is the infamous George. 

“I’m not in the best place as of the current moment.” George admits as an explanation. 

Sapnap nods slowly. “Right.” 

Dream’s calls are growing increasingly more frantic, but George is still unable to move. All of it for him? He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve Dream’s unwavering devotion, because Dream was so, so good. He was a spot of brightness in a world of sin. He didn’t avoid the draft like George did, he had done something with his life, and he wasn’t married to the bottle like George was. Hell, he owned an orange grove of all things, and he had waited years and years for George. What had George done? Played Mozart for a few people? Forgotten about Dream?

George lifts his leg and stomps down on the orange. The remaining juice flies upwards, stinging his eyes. He crushes the orange down to a bloody pulp, the mess sticking to the heel of his oxfords and turning brown in the dirt. The sun beats down on his back, sweat dripping down his collar. Tears slip down his cheeks, and he’s pretty sure they aren’t from the orange juice in his eyes. 

He was so, so stupid. He was going to go home and cancel all his gigs for the rest of the week, and then get on a ship heading eastwards, away from this rotten country. He would go back to England, where the ocean was cold, the skies gray, and the oranges rotten. He never should have come to America, to Miami. 

“George?” Dream says softly, voice ragged with concern. His name on Dream’s tongue sends shocks up his spine, a feeling he doubted would ever fade. He is out of breath from running and yelling, but he seems relieved to have found him. “George, come on. It’s alright.” 

He takes George’s hands in his, frowning at the stickiness. George’s hands are small in his, he had always thought of Dream as having pianist hands, not him. Dream rubs his thumbs along the back of his hands. “What’s wrong?” 

George looks down at the beaten pulp of the orange, a wave of guilt roaring in his gut. The orange didn’t deserve his wrath, and now it was squished and dead and ruined, it’s guts clinging to George’s oxford. 

“Can we go home?” 

“Did something happen?” Dream asks, and he sounds five seconds away from crying. George’s gut twists sharper, he had forgotten how much his own moods swayed Dream’s. He takes a few steadying breaths, but Dream holding him seems to only make it worse. 

Dream looks to Sapnap, who only shrugs. George is grateful for it, he isn’t sure what Dream would do if he found out that George knew all of Dream’s money was for George. 

“Yeah, we can go home.” Dream says carefully, guiding George through the orange trees. He snaps a few ripe oranges from the branches, placing them gently in his pocket instead of crushing them into juice like George did. With wobbling hands George lights a cigarette, the nicotine soothing the rough edges of his soul. 

“Did Sapnap,” Dream looks behind them, but his friend had disappeared. “Did he say something?” 

“No.” George lies, taking a long drag on the cigarette and releasing it with a stuttering breath. “I don’t know why I’m so upset.” 

“It’s alright.” Dream says again, even though it very much is not alright. 

They get back into the car, and Dream wordlessly peels out of the parking lot and onto the dusty road, the car bouncing on the unpaved street. His jaw is tight, his knuckles white against the steering wheel and shoulders drawn up. The tension flows off him and into the sultry summer air. George, unable to look at him too long, stares at the road and the fading lines of orange trees. The smoke crowds his lungs comfortingly. 

The minutes crawl by achingly slow as George gathers his wits about him. Hot embarrassment climbs up his throat. He thinks about the people who stared at him as Dream guided him away, and how Sapnap’s first impression of him had been that of an unstable alcoholic who bursted into tears at the slightest hitch. He rubs at his eyes with the hand not holding his cigarette, takes a few deep breaths as the tears subside. 

Dream turns right onto a road that is even bumpier and dustier than the last. George looks up, confused. “Where are we going?” 

“I- I think we should talk.” Dream says carefully as the car bounces. His jaw is tight, and George notices a scar just on the underside of it. He thinks about how four years ago he would have reached out and ran his fingers along it, pressed his lips to that spot. But they’re not who they were four years ago, so George keeps his hands in his lap and takes a long drag of his cigarette. 

“Or you could just take me home.” George replies stiffly, eyeing the door handle and wondering how bad it would hurt if he jumped out now. They’re not going very fast, he could make it. But he’s pretty sure Dream would catch him. 

“George, I’m serious. We should talk about things.” The lightness in his tone is gone, the smile George is so used to has vanished. It’s replaced by a set of hard shoulders, a tensed jaw, and hands that are knuckle-white against the steering wheel. 

The car comes to a halt at an outlook over the sea, the road twists behind them, hugging the curve of the cliff. The only thing to keep them from tumbling over is a thin metal and wood barrier. Beyond that, the bright blue sea churns and the waves crack against the cliffside. For a horrible moment George finds himself back out on the moors all those years ago, overlooking the northern Atlantic. It’s odd to think that this is the same ocean, that the sun above them is the same one from that day, the same one George has seen all his life. 

George stubbs out his cigarette on the ashtray in Dream’s car before he lights another one. Dream watches him, looks at him the way George remembers from all those years ago. It’s a look that makes George feel so seen, so torn open and raw he can scarcely fathom it. 

“What happened?” He asks, voice both gentle and blunt. A summer breeze dances off the sea and sweeps George’s hair back from his face. 

George swallows, unsure what to say. His mouth is made of cotton, thick and constricting. He can’t speak, his tongue heavy in his mouth. Dream watches him patiently, his eyes darting across George’s face. 

He takes a long drag on the cigarette, releasing a lungful of smoke into the thick humidity. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” He says slowly. 

Dream’s gaze softens impossibly further. “Is that why you were upset?” 

“Yes.” The half-lie tastes bitter on his tongue. 

A moment passes, time stretching like taffy. Dream must know he’s lying, Dream knows the tone of voice he uses when he lies, but he keeps quiet. The ocean here is a startlingly bright shade of blue, the complete opposite of the stormy grey waves one finds in England. 

“Why did you come to Florida?” Dream questions. 

And wasn’t that just the big question? The one which sat between them like a bomb, the answer to everything. George inhales on the end of his cigarette, the cherry flashing orange before he pulls it away and exhales. The burn is nice, the way Dream watches his lips is even better. 

“Well, Wilbur was here.” He explains, picking his words carefully. He still isn’t looking at Dream, eyes focused on the horizon where the sea clashes against the sky. “And I heard there was some sort of boom,” he waves his cigarette. “Figured all the rich people here would want a pianist.” 

“There wasn’t…” Dream pauses, eyebrows scrunching. “Another reason?” 

George finally looks at him, smoke clouding his face. “Do you want there to be another reason?” 

“Yes.” Dream says a beat too quickly, with too much honesty in his voice. “I do, George.” 

“Florida makes me think of you. But I didn’t think I’d see you again.” He says after a moment as another breeze ruffles their hair. The hood of the car gleams in the afternoon sun, and the heat is just beyond unbearable. 

“Did you want to see me again?” Dream asks, and George has never heard him sound this unsure, this quiet. His voice is careful, hardly above a whisper. George feels like he could break it, shatter it like ice. His tone is raw and vulnerable. 

An indefinite amount of time trudges on. The waves continue to snap against the cliff, and a car rolls by on the road. The woman driving it spares them an odd look before continuing. George inhales again, lets the smoke settle in his lungs and run against their sides before it becomes uncomfortable and he releases it. 

“Yes.” He admits. “I dreamed of you, both when I was awake and when I was not. Everything reminds me of you, even now. I used to think I was haunted,” George shrugs. “I don’t know what I am now.” 

“Do you still want to see me again?” Dream asks, just as quiet as before. His green eyes are blown wide as the moon when George meets his gaze. 

“Sapnap,” George inhales on the cigarette again as an excuse to prolong the conversation. “He said you got rich and bought a big house and this nice car, and planted blue flowers and palm trees because you hoped to see me again.” He isn’t sure why he’s saying it. He didn’t want to say it. Not yet, perhaps not ever. He was saying it now, and maybe it was a sign that he wasn’t the same as he was in college. “Is that true?” 

Dream inhales sharply, and looks away from George for the first time. The ocean swells with the tide, the water a stunning shade of blue George can hardly comprehend. The waves are white with foam, angrily slamming and bursting against one another. George at last feels as if he can breathe again. 

“Somewhat.” He says eventually. “I got rich because I hated being poor, but uh, the palm trees and flowers, the big house with about six grand pianos, and the flashy car was all for you.” He laughs dryly and reaches into his own pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Wordlessly, George offers him his lighter. Dream flicks it once, twice, three times before a flame catches. He holds the wobbling flame to the cigarette, sighing when it finally catches. He releases the smoke, and it mixes with the scent of the sea. George’s head spins. 

“God, I must sound fucking delusional.” He mutters, running a hand through his coiffed hair. “Waiting all these years for a man an ocean away, who I couldn’t even muster the courage to write to.” He shakes his head. “I think I might have inhaled too much mustard. I’m a goddamn fool.” 

George watches him as his own cigarette singes his fingers. He puts it out on the tray. He wants to reach for another but holds back. He can’t afford a third pack this month. 

But Dream had always been just this side of  _ too much _ . Being apart for so long, his allure should have rusted like a penny. But after four years George still thought of him. He thinks of the color green, wiley moors, and marble halls. He thinks of the long string of broken lovers in his past. His friends joked he had a type. George knew it was deeper. He knew he was a fool. 

“Perhaps we’ll try again.” George says slowly, meeting Dream’s gaze. His eyes are red and dry and just as pretty as he remembers. “If you’ll have me.” 

“Oh George,” He says, and his voice is so terribly fond that George thinks he is going to dissolve, “I’ll always have you.” 

The casino is a lurid shade of temptation. 

The man at table three is a cop out of uniform, but he smiles at his winning hand and the ice in his whiskey clinks against the sides of his glass. The poker chips are piled high at every table, and girls in loose dresses thread through the crowds. They gaze discreetly at the cards in men’s hands, then whisper the hand to the man at the other side of the table. The air is stifling with cigarette smoke. 

The man who owned the casino, a large burly fellow, who was most definitely paying the cops to look the other way, and just as definitely a part of the mob, had told him “cocktail music”. 

So, George played cocktail music. 

It was lifeless and dry as bone. But it filled the mood and stalled time before the band would take over and the stage curtains would open up, and the men at the tables would briefly forget about their fortunes they were gambling away in favor of watching the dancers on stage. George doesn't know how anyone can stand to listen to cocktail music, but perhaps that was the pretentiousness he acquired at Oxford at long last bleeding into his sentiments. 

George is midway through the next horrid song when the doors burst open. He doesn't stop playing, but he does glance up, looking away almost as soon as he did. About three men, dressed in black with hats pulled low over their eyes enter. The rest of the room stills, their eyes widening at the sight of the men, and all of a sudden George’s cocktail music seems entirely unfit for the situation. 

He keeps playing. 

The men settle at a table, the previous occupants abandoning their game and scurrying to make room for them. A waitress sets two bottles of bourbon on the table and three glasses at their hands. 

One man, seemingly the leader, looks up with a scowl. “He’s late.” 

The other patrons look at one another nervously, but nobody speaks. The minutes swim on as if through syrup, marked only by George’s determined playing. A bead of sweat drips down his neck, and he looks longingly at the beer bottle near his feet. 

The door opens again, the humid Miami night pouring in the open door. The blinding lights of Flagler Street beam inside, reflecting off the coins and poker chips. Dream stands in the doorway, posture tall and proud, the posture of a man who is used to being known. 

George stumbles to a halt, his fingers splaying awkwardly across the keys. The noise draws Dream’s attention to him, and recognition flickers across his freckled face, replaced just as quickly with yellow-bellied fear. 

“Nice of you to show up.” Sneers the man at the table, a large cigar dangling between his lips. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. 

Without looking at George, Dream sits at the last empty chair at the table. “Traffic was bad.” 

The dealer stands between them, giving them both an odd look before he shuffles the cards in his hands and distributes them between the two men. Everyone in the room releases a collective breath, and the evening proceeds just as it had before. Men and women return to their games and drinks, and George plays again. He plays the same piece he played an hour ago. Nobody notices. 

He keeps an eye on Dream, the men he is playing against blatantly cheating. They pass cards under the table and tap morse code against the man’s leg. George keeps playing. Dream doesn't look at him. 

Half an hour passes, the atmosphere of the casino is bland in comparison to the way it was before Dream entered. George’s fingers cramp, the music is messy and fragmented. Dream’s jaw is tight, but otherwise he is calm, posture relaxed and easy as he throws down a winning set of hands. 

The other two men stare at it, look at the cards on the green table, then towards the cards in the man’s hands. Even with all that cheating, Dream had won. George bites back a grin, pride swelling in his chest like a balloon. 

“Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen.” Dream chides, tipping his hat. He holds out his hand. “I believe that’s two hundred dollars, no?” 

The men grumble amongst themselves, before the man with the sneer and the losing hand reaches into his pocket and extracts two crisp hundred dollar bills. Dream holds them up to the light, checking their authenticity before he smiles and places them safely in his own jacket pocket. “Thank you.” He sounds honest. 

“You’re gonna pay for that.” The man grumbles, eyes dark. George glances at Dream, his hands still playing. 

“I’m sure I will.” Dream shrugs, adjusting his hat. “But I’ll see you in Hell.” 

The men hiss under their breaths as Dream leaves, disappearing into the night just as he came. George thinks he should be mad, appalled to find Dream gambling, but instead there’s a sense of heady elation in his gut. 

The curtains on the stage lift, and George is abruptly cut off by a blaring phonograph, because the casino was too cheap to get a proper band. Girls wearing only feathers hurry onto the stage, their heels clicking against the wood. The men in the room all cheer and George sighs, cracking his tired fingers. 

He steps away from the piano. He has maybe fifteen minutes before he needs to be back, and before he can think too long about it, he hurries out the door Dream just left. 

The summer night is thick with heat, sticky and humid. The street smells of the ocean and gasoline and nicotine in the spaces between. The bright electric lights glare down across him, blocking the stars from the sky and glittering down on the girl’s loose dresses. He takes a deep breath, and for the first time in his life, he is grateful to be in Miami. 

He finds Dream easily enough, sitting in a different car then the one George is used to seeing. He’s smoking, and looking directly at George. His gut twists. 

He opens the door and takes the empty seat beside Dream. Neither of them say anything, but the cockiness from the casino is gone. Dream twists his hands in his lap, ears red. 

“I wouldn’t have gone if I’d known you would be there.” Dream admits after a moment. The street is loud, crowds of people hurrying past. Most of them are tourists, marveling at the electicies of Miami found in no other place on earth. 

“I don’t mind.” George admits. “If I had as much money as you, I’d gamble too.” 

“It’s thrilling.” Dream says around his cigarette. “One of the only thrilling things left in the world.” 

“And what about me?” 

Dream looks at him, eyes bright under the glaring lights and foggy with cigarette smoke. “You’re the greatest thrill.” 

George is nineteen again, running into Dream at Oxford. He is nineteen and the whole world is at his grasp, an entire lifetime ahead of him, he is falling in love over and over again. He thinks he’d do everything again, just to see Dream look at him like this. He wants to kiss him, right there in the middle of Flagler street under the neon lights. 

Instead, George only smiles and leans forward. He watches Dream’s eyes wide as he takes the cigarette from between his lips and takes a drag for himself. Dream stares, breathing in the smoke that George lets go of. He allows George to place the cigarette back in his mouth, his eyes wide as he watches George lean back, a little self-satisfied smirk painting his features. It’s the most intimate they’ve been in years, and it’s in front of all of Miami. 

Nobody notices, too wrapped up in their own lives. 

“Come home with me, George.” Dream begs, voice breathless. “Please.” 

“I can’t.” He replies, headlights flashing across his face. “I have three hours left of this gig.” 

“Bullshit.” Dream reaches into his pocket and places the two hundred dollars he’d won into George’s hands. “That will cover it. Come home with me.” 

“Dream!” He startles, shoving the money out of sight. “Are you insane?” 

“How much are they paying you? Ten? Twenty bucks? That’ll cover it.” He explains, perfectly serious, his gaze earnest.

George looks around, his composure shattered as he stuffs the bills back into Dream’s hands. “I can’t accept this.” 

“I don’t think I can go home without you.” Dream explains, two hundred dollars crumpled in his hands. “Not again.” 

George’s heart stutters to a stop, all the air squeezed from his lungs. He looks at Dream and sees nothing but love reflected back at him. It’s the bitter-sort of love. The old-war, heartbroken love, the sort that novels are written about. George doesn't know what to do with all that affection. 

“Don’t take the money if you don’t want it.” Dream continues, “But come with me.” 

George looks back at the casino, in all its glittering lights and gilded glamor. Palm trees sway along the street, floating high above the crowds and cars. The ground is littered with cigarette butts and smashed alcohol bottles, a testament to how little prohibition mattered in this city. He looks back towards Dream, and it isn’t really a hard decision. 

“Okay.” 

Dream’s eyes light up. “You mean it?” 

“Of course.” He says, buckling the seatbelt. “Take me anywhere.” 

The smile Dream gives him takes his breath away. 

Dream takes him to his house, now quiet and empty. It seems even larger without the crowds and blasting music. The Ivy-covered gates imported from Normandy swing-open to let them in, and a man in a clean whitesuit tips his hat at them as they pass. 

“Will they talk?” George asks nervously as Dream steers the car into the garage, parking it between the familiar green Rolls Royce and a cherry-red Mercedes. 

“No.” Dream assures him as he cuts the engine. 

“How can you be sure?” George questions as they step out. He wonders if the casino owner is looking for him, and George finds he doesn't much care. 

Dream locks the car and stores the keys in his pocket. “I trust everyone who works here.” He explains simply as they step out of the garage and into the lush gardens. The night is thicker here, quieter. George pulls at his collar uncomfortably as the heat settles in his bones. He can hear the ocean, only a couple of acres away. 

“Do you want a tour?” Dream asks, voice uncertain. 

George gazes up at the monstrous house, unable to comprehend that it was all Dream’s, every square inch of it. “That could take hours.” 

Dream laughs. “I’ll just show you the good bits, how does that sound?” 

George nods, and before he knows it, he is being pulled through the green gardens, Dream happily pointing out the various flowers. Lights are strung between the trees, and wisteria clings to the sides of the house and crawls up gutters. At some point, Dream offers to climb the nearest palm tree and get him a leaf. Laughing, George tells him he’ll fall and crack his spine in half. 

Dream says it would be worth it. 

He shows George the massive orange juice machine in his basement. He shows him all the buttons to push, and George watches three or four oranges be squeezed and watered and sugared into juice. Dream presses the glass into his hands, smiling through it all. 

He shows him the pool, and his spanish silks. He shows him all six grand pianos and tells stories of parties gone wrong, of his most influential guests. He has an entire library, and a shelf filled with the books they used to share at Oxford. George extracts his old copy of _Maurice_ from the shelves, his eyes widening when he flips through it, still littered with his messy, nineteen-year old handwriting. 

“You kept it?” He gasps, looking between Dream and the borderline illegal book. 

“Of course. It reminded me of us.” 

George grimaces. “Don’t say that.” 

“Well, maybe not anymore.” He admits. “But it did.” 

George raises an eyebrow, continuing to flick through the book as the rush of memories bombards him, almost overwhelming. Voice thin, George read, “‘There was something better in life than this rubbish, if only he could get to it—love—nobility—big spaces where passion clasped peace, spaces no science could reach, but they existed for ever, full of woods some of them, and arched with majestic sky and a friend.’” 

“I almost burned the book.” Dream admits, staring at his hands. “The way it made me think, and feel.” He shook his head. “It was like the pages of my life in the words of a stranger.” 

George understands it. He returns the book to the shelf, allowing it to hide amongst the others and disappear in the great wells of the library. He takes Dream’s hands in his, and they are just as he remembered. 

“Dream.” He speaks, voice softer than it’s been years. “I’m here.” 

He looks at him, eyes wet with tears even as he tries to wipe them away. The open window beside them creaks in the wind, overlooking the ocean and the inky night. “Play for me?” 

“Dream.” 

“Just once. Just one more time. I bought all these pianos, hoping you’d play for me.” He explains, brushing at his eyes. George doesn’t see what use that is. 

“Alright.” 

Dream guides him towards the other side of the library, and it looks almost painfully like Oxford, as if Dream had attempted to recreate it. 

It’s a bit sad. 

George sits at the piano anyways, adjusting the bench as Dream watches. He’s still crying as George tunes the instrument, tests the pedals. When he looks back at Dream he smiles at him. George smiles back and pats the spot on the bench beside him. 

Dream shakes his head. “Oh, no. I can’t.” 

“Yes you can.” George pats the bench again and gives Dream the look he knows he can’t refuse. Dream sits down.

George begins to play, Dream at his side. Something in him, some shattered piece he had long lost, fits back into place in his chest. The world rights itself on its axis as the notes fall from his hands like rain. Dream chokes when he recognizes the piece, and George pours as much love as he possibly can into it, until he is shaking with it, coming undone like a spool of thread. It is Dream and it is love and it is all the same. 

Dream leans his head against George’s shoulder. He watches George’s fingers flutter across the keys through blurry eyes, love swelling in his chest. He thinks he recognizes the piece, realizes it’s just another way to say  _ I love you _ . 

Years of emotion and heartache are dumped into the piece and pressed like flowers between book pages. But there is nowhere else in the entire world George would rather be than with Dream at his side and a piano under his hands. It feels as if they have stepped back through time, yet at the same moment it feels crushingly like the present. At Oxford, neither of them carried the heavy suitcases of guilt and heartbreak that they do now. 

They’re different. Their love is fragile, it’s a different flavor now. George thinks he can learn it again, if it’s for Dream. 

The piece tapers off into silence, the final note hanging gently amongst the books and wafting out of the open window before it is swallowed by the night. George’s long fingers slip off the keys, and they hang in his lap awkwardly. He waits with bated breath for Dream to speak, waits for him to even move and acknowledge it. 

He noses the side of George’s face, releases a stuttering breath against his cheek that sends butterflies through his stomach. “George.” 

Slowly, George moves to look at him. His heart pounds as he turns his head until he is only inches from Dream. His eyes flicker down to his mouth as Dream slowly moves closer, until George can just about taste the nicotine still on his tongue. But he knows Dream will not be the one to move, not after everything. 

“Dream.” He mutters, voice raw and breathless. 

Then he is leaning forward, Dream’s lips sliding against his own. The brokenness inside his chest settles, the pieces slotting and melting together. George wants to cry. He never thought he would find this, never in his whole life. He had gotten it once and it had slipped between his fingers, history and war tearing them apart. He had believed that to be it, that he would spend the rest of his life longing after Dream, for a shattered love. 

George opens his mouth and Dream presses closer. They shift on the piano bench to adjust the angle, George’s hands cradling Dream’s face while Dream settles his own on his waist, tugging him closer. Dream kisses like a starved man, like a man back from war. George gasps into his mouth, kissing like a man who had nearly lost everything. 

They break apart for a moment, gasping. Then Dream moves his hands into his hair and drags him back. George goes willingly, pulling on Dream just as much as he pulls on him. He feels like a glass, liquid overflowing and splashing onto the table with his overabundance of love. He can taste the salt on Dream’s lips. 

“George.” Dream mumbles. 

He yanks him back, the only sound being books fluttering in the wind and the distant crush of waves against the shore. Dream’s lips move to his jaw and George tangles his hands in his hair with a gasp. It feels like the start and the end all at once. 

“Dream.” He whispers, and it sounds like a prayer. 

He wakes the next morning in a bed larger than any he has ever known. The sheets are gathered at his waist, and a breeze wafts over his exposed back. George forces his eyes open, blinking back the sunlight that floods into the room. Across from the bed a set of french doors are pushed open, swinging gently in the breeze. Beyond them, is a pair of towering palm trees and the ocean. The room is warm with humidity, cooled only by the wind washing off the ocean. 

George turns his head and flushes red when he finds Dream sprawled under the blanket beside him, his legs loosely tangled with George’s and a hand resting at the small of George’s back. They’re both laid bare in the morning light. George buries his face in the pillow as the memories of the previous night return. Somehow a gig at a casino had led to him watching Dream gamble out a few hundred dollars, and then that had turned into George coming home with Dream. 

He thinks of a moonlit library, a tattered copy of  _ Maurice _ , and a kiss that came four years too late. 

George uncovers his head from the pillow and looks over at Dream, fast asleep beside him. The memories slough away like the ocean yanked back by the tide, and he smiles in spite of himself. The sun falls over them, kissing the freckles across Dream’s shoulders, turning his messy hair into spun gold. Fondness bubbles in George’s gut, and he turns over to drag himself closer to Dream. Dream grumbles in his sleep, but draws him closer in return. 

George runs his fingertip over a scar at Dream’s collarbone. It is a shattered burst of white across the lines of his skin, an old memory from the war where a bullet had passed through. A few inches downwards and it would have gone through his heart. Bile rises in his throat at the thought. 

He wakes again an indefinite amount of time later, to the feeling of Dream drawing lines across his back. When he looks up Dream just smiles like George has given him everything in the world. 

He cranes his head to look over Dream’s shoulder at the clock near his bed and groans, settling back amongst the sheets. 

“What?” Dream laughs. 

“I missed my gig.” 

“Again?” 

“You’re gonna give me a reputation.” 

Dream snorts. “Does this mean I get you for the whole day?” 

“Only if you insist.” 

“Well, then I insist.” 

George smiles. “You’re an idiot.” 

They spend the day together anyways. George doesn't worry about the missed gig, not really. It’s hard to worry about that when Dream is smiling at him under the summer sun, the humidity dripping from the air. For the first time, it doesn't bother George. 

They see eachother often after that, only separating when George has a gig or Dream has something to take care of. Within a month, George is planning to move out of his shitty, tenement-style apartment in Little Havana and move into Dream’s sprawling mansion in Coral Gables. 

One night threatens to shatter it completely. 

It was perhaps the nicest gig George had ever landed, at the newly opened Biltmore. It was built and developed by George Merrick, a loose acquaintance of Dream’s, who could almost be solely thanked for the development of Miami. The Biltmore was a testament to that wealth, to the new money extravagance that had cropped up in the post-war boom. The building towered into the open sky, reminiscent of Spanish architecture with yellow walls and a red tiled roof. The highest spire could easily be confused for that of a church, and perhaps that was the idea Merrick had been going for. The building had inspired an almost cult-like following since it had opened, and it boasted the largest pool in the world. 

George had never felt smaller as he played Haydn in the center of a grand dining room with massive, overarching ceilings and crystal chandeliers which spilled light across the diamonds and decadence. The doors were propped open, allowing the summer breeze to flit inside. The outside glowed a brilliant blue from the light of the pool, beyond that the limitless acres of golf course lay, etched into the Florida wetlands. 

Here, he does not play cocktail music. The guests here are refined enough to hear when George misses a note, and petty enough to complain about it to the waiter or send him a nasty look. The Biltmore was in the middle of hosting both an extravagant fashion show and an international golf tournament. Every seat in the dining room was filled, and yet George still found himself glancing up to look for Dream, who had told him he had a meeting with some of the land developers in the same building and would try to come down and listen to George play before they left. 

He hated how much he looked for Dream, how the thought of seeing him was enough for George to force himself through three hours of relentless playing, for a room of some of the richest people in America. 

George often wondered what life choices he made to get here. He tends not to dwell on it. 

The night drains like water through a strainer. The conversations grow looser as the evening drags forward and the alcohol flows like water. George’s gaze lingers on the bubbling champagne and amber whiskey. Miami was another world. It seemed to exist in it’s own providence, a place untouchable by something as facetious as law and government and morals. 

Dream clambers into the empty table beside George hours later, when George was just beginning to doubt whether he would make any sort of appearance. He looks tired and frazzled as he scrambles into the unoccupied chair. He gives George a lopsided smile as an apology, and George rolls his eyes in reply as a waiter comes forward. 

George does his best to ignore Dream’s presence for the rest of the night, despite spending an eternity wishing for him. He wants to leave, ask what took him so long and why he looks so tired. But they can’t do that, not until the last of the guests are filtering out of the room. 

George flicks the pages in his folder, settling on another Tchaikovsky piece just as Dream is lighting a treasured cigarette and leaning back in his chair. He orders only a small plate of food and a glass of water. 

Dream smiles at him when he finishes every piece. He doesn't clap, that would be impolite. But he does smile. He looks proud, in spite of his exhaustion. 

The last hour is long. George’s playing grows sloppy, uncoordinated. He picks easier and easier pieces to stumble through. His lower back aches from slouching over the piano for hours, and his fingers are cramped and aching. When he looks over, Dream seems to be about two minutes from falling asleep right there. 

The first few guests begin to trickle out just after midnight, when the waxing moon is high in the star-strewn sky. Thirty minutes later the waiters are grabbing plates and cups off empty tables, the guests dispersing into the silvery night, which never seems to end. With a sigh, George’s hands slip from the keys and his head falls on the piano, a discorded chord ringing through the pristine ballroom. 

Dream laughs at him fondly. “Ready to go?” 

“Yeah.” George mumbles. “Just give me a sec. I’ve gotta get my money.” 

When he returns, an envelope with a check stuffed into his coat pocket, Dream is standing in the hallway and smoking a cigarette. George looks left and right as he approaches before taking the cigarette from Dream’s hands. Dream smiles at him as he takes a drag before returning it. 

“Are you gonna do that everytime?” 

“Possibly.” George laughs. “Did you get everything sorted out with the developers?” 

Dream groans. “I’d rather not think about it now.”

“So that’s a no?” 

“It’s complicated.” He explains, guiding George through the hallways. Beside them the hallway opens up, looking out over the pool and expansive gardens. Fake greek statues line the walkway between potted ferns and palm trees. Guests bob in the water, clutching flutes of champagne, the feathers in their hair sparkling under the moonlight. The palm trees cast looming shadows over the bright water, the bright green plants lining the walkways sway in the evening wind. George stops, looking out at it all. 

“You okay?” Dream asks, following his gaze. 

“I never thought I’d find myself somewhere like this.” George says slowly, the light of the pool reflecting off his pale face. Dream watches him thoughtfully. “I don’t even hate it. That’s the worst part.” 

Dream takes a drag on his cigarette. “It takes some adjusting.” 

“I feel like I’m dreaming.” George admits. He means it. The wavering blue light from the pool, the overabundance of alcohol, the dripping humidity and the massive building, the extravagant clothing, and of course Dream beside him and the brilliant blue sea. “This feels fake.” 

Dream laughs. “That’s just Miami. I’ve lived here my whole life and it’s never felt real.” He looks at George. “It’s starting to.” 

George smiles back, fighting the urge to reach out and take Dream’s hand. He opens his mouth to reply, but is abruptly cut off before he could do so.

“Hey!” Barks a voice, George looks over Dream’s shoulders. His heart plummets to the floor when he finds the man from the casino, the one Dream dragged all that money from. “I’ve been looking for you.” 

Dream stiffens, placing himself between George and the man. George steps forward to stand at his side, but Dream firmly pushes him back. 

“If this is about your money-” 

The man laughs. “Oh it’s not just the money. It’s never just the money.” 

Dream’s gaze narrows. “Then what is it about?” 

“That was all the money I had left.” The man snaps, gaze unfocused with drink. The man slides a gun from his waistband, grip loose and manic. The sound of the gun uncocking echoes in George’s ears. “My livelihood fell apart. My men stopped respecting me because I lost to some new money egg living on Miami Beach, who spends his time throwing parties and pretending to be something he ain’t.” 

“Dream-” George hisses, but Dream pushes him back further. 

“I can give you your money back.” Dream says placatingly, cigarette still in his mouth and hands held up. The guests in the pool had fallen silent, their gaze stuck on the gun reflecting in the moonlight. 

The man’s lip curls. “I’m not here for money.” 

“Then what the fuck do you want?” Dream snaps. 

The gun explodes, and George isn’t quick enough to pull Dream aside. He isn’t quick enough to stop the bullet from burying itself in Dream’s shoulder. There’s a gasp from the pool, followed by shouts and screams. The man runs, but George hardly notices as he reaches forward to grab Dream, falling limp as a doll against him. He buckles under his weight and lowers them to the ground, heart pounding horribly loud in his head. 

With shaking hands, George removes Dream’s jacket and starts prying to get his button-down off, blood soaking his hands. 

“Are you alright?” Dream mumbles, staring upwards at George has people pour from seemingly nowhere, surrounding them like a mob. “George?” 

“I’m fine, Dream.” He replies thickly, finally getting Dream’s shirt off and stuffing it into the wound. 

“Did he hit you?” 

“Dream, you’re the one bleeding out.” 

An old man in a white coat pushes through the crowd, screaming something about being a doctor. “Move.” The old man tells him, pushing at George’s hands. 

“Fuck off.” George snaps, his eyes wet. He pushes the shirt deeper into the wound, the fabric dyed bright red. 

“If you do not let me help he will die!” The man shouts. 

“Then fucking help him then!” 

The old man forces George’s hands away and opens a small medical kit. The crowd around them thickens, all of them shouting and screaming as Dream bleeds and bleeds. Men carrying a stretcher push through, and if George was in a clearer state of mind he would be impressed with their efficiency, the sort reserved only for rich people. 

“Is there an ambulance?” The doctor asks as the men drop the stretcher beside George and he reluctantly moves out of their way. The doctor finishes wrapping his shoulder. Dream’s gaze is unfocused. His cigarette rolls to a halt on the pavement. 

“Just outside the front doors.” One of the men says, rolling Dream onto the stretcher. 

“George?” Dream slurs, some clarity returning to his gaze. His eyes jump around frantically. “George?” 

The men lift the stretcher, the crowd parting for them like the red sea. George jogs alongside them and takes Dream’s hand, ignoring the odd looks. Dream relaxes, his grip surprisingly firm on George’s hand as they race through the hotel. When did everything go so wrong? What God had it out for them? 

The men’s oxfords click against the marble floors, Dream’s face growing paler with every passing moment, the tight bandages wrapped around his shoulder already soaked through with blood. George tells himself that Dream had been through worse in the war, that he’ll be okay, but he isn’t sure he believes it. 

Four years. Four long years of separation and, he’d finally found Dream again, only for it to all come crashing to a halt because of a single bullet. George was sick of losing things.

They stumble out into the night again, on the opposite end of the building. A red ambulance is waiting, back doors propped open and medics waiting anxiously in the car loop. Before stop and stare as Dream is loaded into the back, passed from hand to hand. George’s hand slips from Dream’s as the medics push him back and load him into the ambulance. 

“George?” Dream calls. 

George turns to one of the medics. “Can I ride with you?” 

“No.” 

George’s voice is strained. “He’s gonna freak out if I’m not there.” 

The man gives him an icy glare. “He won’t be conscious for much longer. You can find him at the hospital.” 

“ _ George _ ?” More desperate this time. 

“Please? I’ll pay you, however much you need-” 

“No.” The man snaps again, and without another word the back doors are being slammed in George’s face and the ambulance is roaring away in a cloud of gasoline. He is left there standing in disbelief, watching the night swallow the bright red automobile as blood clings to his nails and soaks his shirt. The bright lights from the Biltmore fall over his stunned and pale face. He opens and closes his hand, his heart in tatters across the newly built laid pavement. The palm trees creak in the wind above him, the summer night turned into a tragedy in minutes. 

George looks towards the stars and closes his eyes, breathing in the sharp scent of gas and flowers from the Biltmore gardens. He crosses himself for the first time in years. 

He doesn't think God hears. 

George isn’t allowed in the hospital room. So he sits in the waiting room and waits. 

And waits. 

And waits. 

It is midday before a nurse finds him and shakes him awake. She looks tired but smiles kindly and asks, “Are you George?” 

“Yes.” He mumbles sitting up. “Is he okay?” 

She nods. “Dream is going to be just fine, sir.” 

The clouds part, and the sun smiles down on him. George buries his face in his hands and releases a long, shaking breath. He had spent the past eight or nine hours dozing and imagining Dream’s blood between his hands, the horrible sound of his dying lungs. 

“May I see him?” He asks after a moment, hands shaking. 

The nurse leads him through the winding halls, her long skirt brushing the white floors. George has never been fond of hospitals, never liked their harsh and glaring lights, or the smell of blood and antiseptic that never quite goes away. 

“He kept asking for you.” The nurse says after a moment. “We kept waiting for him to pass out on his own, but he never did. We had to give him morphine ourselves to get him to fall asleep.” 

George’s heart twists. He wishes he could have been there, wishes he could have held Dream’s hand through it. “Is he still on it?” 

“Yes, he had a second dose a few hours ago, but we’re working him off it.” She pushes open a door and smiles kindly at him again. “He’s right in here.” 

The room is filled with light, the curtains drawn back from the windows so the summer sun can pour through into the room. He is grateful that Dream isn’t in a ward, because then he couldn’t grasp his hand. He wouldn’t collapse into the empty chair beside the bed the same way. He presses his forehead to their clasped hands, listening to the steady and reassuring noise of Dream’s breathing.  _ In and out. In and out. _

George aches. The nurse closes the door. 

Each time he closes his eyes he can see the gun glimmering in the heated night, he hears the crack of it splitting his head in two and the bullet burying itself into Dream’s shoulder. When he opens his eyes, Dream looks peaceful, almost healthy. His blond hair falls in waves against the pillow, his freckles prominent against his tanned skin. George leans forward still clutching his hand, and gently kisses his cheeks. He is warm and alive. Safe. 

George holds their hands to his cheek and leans against them, eyes unfocused as he looks out the window over the rapidly expanding city. The streets are filled with tourists, with people desperate to escape the mundanity of their lives back home, to visit a place where there is always sun and alcohol flows without restriction. George sometimes wonders why Dream chose to stay here. George always thought England suited Dream better, even with it’s grayness and the heartache of war dripping from every poor soul on the street. 

He cannot help but wonder what comes next. He supposes they’ll stay in Miami, and George will move in. He swallows, his gaze flickering back to Dream, still fast asleep. He thinks of everything they’ve done, and how much of their lives they still have left to experience. 

George wants to experience it all. He wants to do it with Dream. 

It hurts to love. The hurt runs deep, like a fissure through the earth or a scar across their chests. It spans the age of war and peace, of poverty and prosperity, of the old and new world. It’s nearly unbearable the way it hurts. But it isn’t Dream that hurts, and it’s not really love. Not really. It’s the thought of losing it. Again. 

George’s eyes water and sting. He had come terrifyingly close. 

Dream stirs and George’s breath catches in his throat as his eyes flutter open. Dream’s hand tightens against his, big and warm. 

“George?” 

“I’m here.” 

Dream frowns, sitting up slightly. The morphine must have been strong because he hardly winces at the way the movement tears at his shoulder, and his eyes are glazed and unfocused. He reaches forward and wipes at George’s eyes, and George tries not to think about how it wasn’t long ago that he was wiping away Dream’s tears. 

George never cries. 

“What’s wrong?” 

He laughs, wet and hollow as he uses the back of his hand to dry his eyes. He feels like being honest. “I almost lost you. Again.” 

“Oh.” Dream mumbles. “I’m okay. This is much better than a field hospital in France.” He leans forward and winks. “A field hospital in France didn’t have you in it.” 

“It could have.” George says before he can stop himself. “All you had to do was write.” 

“I have letters.” Dream admits. “Hundreds, maybe. I just never sent them.” 

At that the tears fall faster before he can stop himself. His chest hurts. “You wrote to me?” 

“I did. I was just a coward and never sent them.” 

“Can I read them?” 

Dream nods. “Once I get out of here.” 

Minutes pass. George stares at their clasped hands, and he thinks about the first time Dream held his hand, how he wanted to memorize every callous, every crook of his fingers. He has all the time in the world now to do so. 

“I can’t believe he shot you.” George mutters. 

“I- I thought he was going to shoot you.” Dream admits. “I don’t think anything has ever scared me that much in my life. And I’ve seen Germans drop into my trench.” 

George shakes his head. “Don’t do it again?” 

Dream frowns. “Do what?” 

“Gamble. Make bad acquaintances. I don’t care. This city is rotten.” He leans forward. “I can’t lose you.” 

Dream looks at him. “You never lost me. Not really.” 

“It felt as if I did, Dream. I didn’t think I’d ever find you again.” George says. 

Dream tightens his grip on his hand. “I’m here now, and you’re here. Whatever comes after, we’ll face together.” 

George gives him a small smile. “You mean it?” 

“Every bit.” Dream ensures. “I adore you.” 

George kisses him, and the shattered pieces of their past begin to heal. 

They become a rumor, the two of them. All of Miami talks of them. Some sneer, others find it admirable. Some don’t believe in it at all. 

The grand parties at Dream’s house grow rarer and rarer, until they seize altogether. Sometimes, on the rare Saturday night, an individual will arrive at their doorstep, asking where the party is. Dream turns them away politely, or a butler will. There is no need for parties. Not anymore. 

Thus, the rumors begin to die away. Dream and George become recluses, and Miami forgets about their short term obsession, turning to larger, grander things. 

But on occasion, one will still spot a deep green car driving down Ocean Drive in the pale gold of summer, and the town will talk, if only for a night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> -WWI absolutely devastated England. They lost about a generation of men, about 3.6% of their population. As a result, the 20s weren’t the same extravagant boom period that they were in America  
> -The 1918 Pandemic is only briefly mentioned, but it afflicted almost a third of the entire world between February 1918 and April 1920 with an estimated 50 million deaths.  
> -Prior to the 1920s Florida was largely considered an agricultural state, but thanks to a real estate boom, the rise of cars, and the growing middle class in America, it became the tourist destination it is today. Because of that, prohibition was largely ignored, especially in Miami.  
> -The Florida land boom was also a very direct cause of the great depression, although perhaps not as big of a factor as buying on credit and the stock market crash, it certainly was attributed to it.  
> -I’ve never actually read or seen Maurice, but it was written in 1913 and was about two men who fell in love at Oxford (technically it wasn’t published until 1971 though)  
> -The $200 Dream won was roughly equivalent of $3000 in modern money  
> -Morphine was the most common pain killer at the time, and was used often in the world wars on the front lines because it was strong enough to be used in small doses and carried with medics. Obviously don’t use it unless it’s prescribed, it’s pretty addicting stuff.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I'm not real sure when part two will be up but hopefully soon. Also I've never been to Florida or England so if any of this is horribly off I'm sorry. And I know oranges don't ripen in the summer but let's pretend they do.   
> Thank you again for reading, comments and kudos are super appreciated :)
> 
> Tumblr: pluto-and-back  
> Twitter: backtopluto2


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